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.