Sent Anonymously

It returns to haunt,
the dilemma, of disowning
the old version of truth;
when I was searching the parallelism
for the sake of otherness.

The unreturning melancholia,
brings the surreal intruder,
I did not want to entertain.

The insane activity of heart
wants a sin uncommitted.

The flirt eyes like a tulip
between your fingers,
unrolling the tender petals.

Night throws the salt on the moon.

There were no tears.