Fingerprints

Fingerprints

There was no final
truth in half-lies. When
you were hunting moon,
I was talking to myself in trance.

You were different,
but obstinate, I survived
your savagery.

Like a castaway after
fighting with my gods, I am
preparing my own tomb.

Holy wars were a great fun.
With changing tribes
and casts, you couldn't spell a mantra.

A lip-lock with death, was
blackening the tongue of sun
you will not stand on beach.

No virtue left in featherless flight.

Reviews

[Willys Watson]

Like most of what you write, I love this verse. And even as sad as the outcome in this poem seems, you're a survivor.

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

this poem really has a mystery to it. It can have so many meanings attributed to it. I enjoy reading works like this. They leave it up to the reader to decipher. Wonderful work, thank you for sharing your art.

[Poetic Beauty]

A sad tale of impending death whether it be life or soul.