The words are splitting
in your lukewarm eyes.
I turn purple,
and ask you not to-
wait for me.

If you walk tenderly
on the edges of white lilies,
try not to look back into
religion of stingrays, which
never forget to strike.

Was it a poetry game
of musical chairs, when you
stood alone, thinking not-
to sit on a barbed seat
for testing unalloyed integrity?

The direction is lost.
I see through the masks
of masqueraders, pretending
to be angel's, they
were not.