Such experiments are bound to recur
Time and again, of picking suns
From the dead blackness of blood
And painting days
On the canvas of darkness
I’m available always, all the time
My protests are wordless
And complaints have no voice –
Darkness of the night
Knows no direction
The seed of moss sown into my flesh
Never blooms. At times
The skin grows thorns
Which prick me.
Darkness of the eyes
Breaks into flowers of flame
And I alone am reduced to ashes.
What a journey this which shifts
My crematorium from day to day.
There is no room for my dwelling
Claims of love resound all around
And hands weary of acclaim shall rest
Only when my bowels are plucked out
I should be all set
For such an experiment.