The grass reaper wants
to right your wrongs
of medieval hurts.

While I uphold
the clash of isms, it should
stand without violence.

You were worth my
breaths. Still something
blocks the sluice gates―

protecting the virginity
of the jungle. Tiger
must not come out.

A cloaked confession,
leaves the space to start
a new arithmetic in reaching
the downhill.

All therapies have
failed. Time to divide
the footprints.