For Intensive Eyes

There was something
between the lips.
You will not recite my name.

A muted word―
becomes a psalm at
execution. There was no
crowd to witness the grace.

If I prepare a book of
all my defeats, would you
write obituary.

The antiquities had become
alive. This was the beauty
of lunacy.

And the saint was dead
without meeting his god.


  • Nemo

    Not a book of defeat, but the book where u tried and tried till you were the best.
    Great piece 👍

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