Today the poem was still on the brink
but never came to an end.
The whole day it was burning
in restless mind
and I looked down from a hopeless height.
No further movement of thoughts,
I craved for a clear vision
between retinal haemorrhages.
Was it a hara-kiri?
I cannot move the pen.
Being half or complete
what was right?
There is no completeness,
only recalls of piecemeals.
Hiding behind excuses and myths,
failed to go for vivisection.
Or life failing to talk to death.
I will pay for closing the door.