Only Gods and infants
Don't blink,
Says a man who lives on
six bottles of beer every day.
Gods are dead,
Infants are yet to feel alive.
The lids don't flutter as such,
Eyes don't shut to the touch.
And You who pierces through
My demons and my virtues;
My silences and my larynx;
My nothingness and my action
Without a blink,
Must be
Either of the two.
But any which way
You are dead.
