Out Of Way

I do not know, 
If it was a religious assault― 
to meet god, 
face to face― 
when my poem was burning. 

One tooth broken― 
I cannot speak properly. But 
my eyes will show my angst, 
my unretrieved light 
from a tunnel. 

Who will find the sun, when 
night was sick? And grievers 
had gone to dig up a grave? 

There was a meaningless pain, 
in waiting. The poem was dead. 

Day you are in, day you 
are out. It was a beauty 
to hear nothing.