Friday, October 14, 2005


It doesn’t ring true:
All this suffering.
I don’t believe myself.
Being alive,
It’s something else,
isn’t it?
It’s the same thing also.
Why cleave to the vile mirrors of pain
like ivy, mostly poisonous?
Why not bring my alter ego
as an offering for a change?
Making mistakes in the first place
and in the second. With such a poise, too!
I’ll stick to the superstition, by your leave,
to the misty physique of an error.
Even stars are kinder to us, than we are.

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