Privileged of remaining
grey in the hands of enemy,
I say to myself―
why not turn dark.

You will erase the ancient bliss.
It had made you a goliath beetle.

The weapons become the
shining medals. I would fill the―
gap of gender space.

But, when the doors become
shut, light tends to cling
the floaters― moving in straight line.

You reach for the falling
crumbs of age. The pain opens
the sky of withering vision.