The eerie exodus of rage 
from crashing domes, 
was the collective wisdom. 
A complete thought, 
walked with me like a shadow. 
The long journey 
for truth demanded clarity. 
Life had not been fair, 
path of death was endless. 

The body poem from the sad 
and gentle portrait crossed the line, 
became a sculpture. 
My silver verse died. 
I was courting a white washed city. 
The book of sorrow levitates, 
Someday I will face the artist. 

Sleepwalking I start. 
Waking to your name 
history was unmade. 
My breath went heavier, 
and my steps emptier. 
The metaphors did’t kiss, 
my innovations. 
In the intermittent love, 
hate was the topic.

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