Day of the depraved:
As the doors close behind
multitudes moving out,
the aged god would limp out
to deserted streets.
With inner eyes of the blind
he would bless the poet:
That loneliness I endured
during days of creation-
now it's all yours.
Behold them
on mountain peaks,
in dense dark new moon,
in flickering sight of
blinding lightning.
Be their shadow on
mad days of routines.
Scribe them
in sweat and blood,
in death and rebirth.
In lives never ordained
its not in prophesies,
but in ship-wrecking uncertainties
I keep treasures for you.
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