No Carnage

A house without doors
I was living
in fog.

The infamous review
will tell about the
fallen words from the roof.

There was no history,
no culture of
cannibalism.

I only exhaled
the grief of centuries
shielding the ankle's pain.

There had been no
perfect picture of the
dancing god in nude.

A blue face swims.
I draw the map of the smell
of cinders.

Satish Verma