My personal agony,
very precious to me.
I was carrying you
on the paint brush, on crayon.
Canvas was
empty after you left. No oil
painting of curved lips and digitals.
You hang a man eater―
panther, after lynching.
Whole length suspended from a tree.
So beautiful, as a star night.
You were left
to yourself― to ponder over
the killer and the kill.
Who wins in war of words?
In war of lips?