Pangs Of Truth

There was nothing to hide. 
No jewels, no gold. I 
wanted, to get the replica of afterlife. 

Meet me in some moonless night. 
I will show you a slice 
of my bruises, offering it as 
my panacea. 

You were hurting yourself 
invoking the baby god 
on the night of lights. 

It was hallucinating, 
stabbing yourself in a 
virtual suicide. 

As the last rites started, 
you got up from the funeral pyre 
and walked away.

Reviews

[Kay]

This poem has an interesting melancholy tone. I like your word choice here: Meet me in some moonless night./I will show you a slice/of my bruises", as if the absence of the moon became the "slice" of light that was pulled down from the sky to reveal the wounds shown. Curious to hear about what inspired this!