Under lip’s shadow
dislocated in faint moonlight
we discussed the maligned communications
between fuming monologues
of desiccsatd life. Sorcery was not able to
knife the secrets of the park, branches
and trees of memory. The game continues
in jungle of lies, blessed by lines of murder:
a divided loyality to have the last laugh.
The nose-dive for inheritance inside the flesh
lays the bones bleached white to dye
them again in pink morale:
I reach where I never intended to travel.
There is no death to mourn now. Each maggot
was ready to enter the spine of image.
Satish Verma
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