Repeating History

My nativity at peril
I wanted to stay away from myself
seeking anonymity in inwardness

Death had drawn a circle
my mode of survival depended on
the hopelessness of life
The ant-hills were growing!

The final assault will take place at night
at spiritual depths.
I will be seething with fake acoustics.
Kissing the blue lips of dawn
night bids adieu.
I will move quietly behind the corpse
A dark tribute to the mother of sorrow.