I am still drawing back the bow
of the arrow...

The sore of aloneness intensified,
melting en masse...

It is utterly futile
to argue with yourself...

The bouquet of flowers
I offered you...

The guardhouse of loneliness—
where the truth of oneself unfolds...

Love dies
when the market shifts...

To My Uncle
Time stopped...

The memory of oceans
lingers in her eyes...

Left the cage ajar
to free her but she returned...

Why eat your mother,
when she has given you birth...

If I ask
the colour of your eyes...

Why do those with the smallest souls
take up the most space...