I wanted to speak out
in hindsight. Details were
of no relevance.

The consensual suicide
had an emasculating effect
on the passion, when―
the moon did not rise.

Privy to a hidden agenda
of age defying wrinkles on fore head.
I ask you, can you read
the dead's face?

You would say I cannot
live any more, like
arthropods you want to burry
in sand, hiding your lies.

You want to talk―
endlessly about getting
nowhere sitting with
giants of sin.

Where was god?