Each step is a calamity
The bloody hole beckons
Lying empty in a piece of
Queer and deserted land
Guarded by old and bearded trees;
The events make a trail
Past the wicket gate without a latch
For mortals do not move to steal;
My hands are tied to
The confusion that I had been
Through the pressing needs
They created to make a life;
I search for my navel-string
And the handful of earth
That hid my identity in
The backyard where
My grandpa used to spit when
He performed morning ablution.
Tiku akp
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fallen-111/
