Should I write,
another verse on love,
so that the prying eyes
could start their work
which of my unaware
acquaintances it is about?
Should I write
another one on death,
to again instigate inquisitors,
to probe the annals of my history,
the name of a non existent somebody,
whom I lost and still grieve upon?
The pen, uncertain, trembles in my hand,
wondering what the next link would be,
What strange discoveries would be
thrown my way,
as the price for a harmless word or two,
unintended meanings plucked out hard,
and rolled into stones
to pelt an unsuspecting hand.
What would suffice to quench the thirst,
of folks busy looking for dirt,
between the lines do they read and find,
all that one could ever mind,
at this paper I stare and sigh,
what all would this force me to deny...