Bracelets

Interned in my own prison 
beneath the skin, 
I stop the silver wheels. 
An aloof sliding, down the impotent rage 
I shout, I will not buy the flakes. 

The hirsute nobility 
of gorillas 
dancing on knives 
before striking a lamb for ribs 
splitting the history. 

A seedless walking 
to erase the footprints of sunny ghosts. 
You want to raise a crop of lies 
dreaming about the mother 
and her sins.

Satish Verma