Talking of doors
without walls. They shut
and open, but don't lead
you anywhere.
This was no insult to the house of cards.

I will ask the rains
to stop for a while.
Don't you be wet for any hurt,
before knowing who you were.

In quietus, your
thoughts move like serrated knives.
There will be blood, on the paper and a
trace of guilt.

Learning to sink
like a log tied to a huge
stone. Will it matter? Then,
from where the energy comes?

The untold secret
was heavier, than the
vocal denial. Was there a
reticent surrender.