The Absolute

Keep me in the last
chapter of the book
you have not written.

Let the end come
of a story written on
the sands of time,
with handprints.

An old hill walks
to meet the river on fire.
When hands tremble
to tie the knot.


As I reach near
the sunset, a slice of moon
cuts my wrist, to let
the poem be born again.

A boneless assault,
a tearfull withdrawl.
How we will remember
the anniversary?