Spiraling over the edge,
Yogic palates
Are out of bounds. 
If only I could undo
The spiral walk. 

 Because it is full of lies,
Death, 
Insurgences,
And despair. 

 Spiral in,
Spiral out,
And all I want
Is for the flowers
To wither.
 
Memento
To heaven.

 It surely comes in knots,
Which I untie,
When I am out of bounds,
As is my yogic palate.

 The thin line
Between good
And flavoured pains. 
The full range 
Of human nature,
From envious
To gracious.
The fears,
The tears too. 

 This is the circle,
Of beginnings and ends,
And I feel so blessed to be here.

 This is my death too,
The death of the old me,
The birth of a new heaven.

 Spiraling over the edge.
 
If only I could undo
The spiral walk. 
 
Yet I am not even capable
Of giving her my condolences
When I hear about her loss.  

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