And then I Flinched... after ages.
Enraged, Angry, Hurt, Tired, Scared...
Seeing no one else flinching in the room.
I saw a dying troop of countless wasps.
Only noise and nodding of
Mass affirmation with no grief...
As if Wilde was merely a name
Or something that was made
Of alphabets, not of flesh and blood.
Or maybe they thought,
His shackles were like blankets
That gave him enough comfort to sleep.
Then I hope, they also didn't know
What spitting on a being's face means.

Was I a fool to experience
An arrow breaking open
My forehead then?

Why in universe, everything about that
Again led me to my own emptiness,
And craving for your embrace?

I went back to slumber anyway, though.