Cold-Bloodedness

Gifting myself a new 
hurt, though ephemeral, do 
you feel my nearness 
when I don't speak? 

It doesn't work, your 
patience with a deadpan face. 
How would you talk to 
butterflies, hollyhocks and 
blackbirds? 

You had tried to overrun 
your own self by giving away 
your eyes.Mind it, your 
vision will still follow you 
at burning pyre. 

Weep, weep my poems 
weep.The seduction was not 
your gold, nor your enemies. 
Then whom you are going to make 
your god? 

The handcuffs have no answer.