I have many contemporaries –
only I am not my contemporary –
I was born one day –
a sinful morsel
in a dish of morality –
a moment of flesh
imprisoned in the flesh –
Every word I conceive
kills itself at birth,
that which is saved
from suicide,
descends on paper,
but there, it is killed
by bullets–
once I got shot in Hanoi,
then in Prague,
later, smoke hung in the air –
as I died
a premature death –
I wonder if one day – some day –
I could be my contemporary –
We’re all judged by our words or actions and for some of us, a ruthless self-analysis isn’t out of the picture. I believe I see much of the above in this piece. Evocative; kind of a paradox which leads to a deeper truth.