Privileged of remaining
grey in the hands of enemy,
I say to myself-
why not turn dark.

You will erase the ancient bliss.
It had made you a goliath beetle.

The weapons become the
shining medals. I would fill the-
gap of gender space.

But, when the doors become
shut, light tends to cling
the floaters- moving in straight line.

You reach for the falling
crumbs of age. The pain opens
the sky of withering vision.