MY LAST POEM

There are stains on my paper-
bluish blood
and unknown fang,
and a barrel
lying like a log
of the laziest woods!
I am accused of murder!
It stole my identity
of loving myself back,
and everyone else:
the loop is interrupted
like a broken neck
yields no blood but
is impossible to repair!

Certain things die!
This one shall live forever
like honeyed mummies-
dead but alive!
I can hide my punctuations
but words?
they are cruel,
they see not how hearts are!
They kill souls
and gods even!

I am accused of murder:
murder of my self
that never was accused
of slavery
but today it is
to minds around!

I am accused of murder,
murder of my truths
that stay captured in
my last poem!


(Fifth and 'final' poem of ART AND POETRY series)