Summer is a bitch.

A few eons back
when sound propelled barren lands
whirling through parched,
thirsty water beds
waiting to be fed

there lay clandestine virtues
of woman and womb
and then the end
and he who knows.


In a tryst of exist and exit
there lay a prodigy
to manifest
what begun has been
on it bestowed
the curse of its
end as it is but
a servile birth
that must reveal the real
eclipsed and binary
before the wounds engulf.

To be or not to be.
Its all in the mind.
Either existence for itself.
Or existence for the end.
I can choose, so can you.