Spinning

Waiting for a prickly path 
at crossroads, 
where desolation sits in 
between words and flesh. 

Hanging shells on windows 
where light immigrated 
to prophecies of Buddha.The 
violence will never end. 

Can you find some space 
between the bullets? Between 
the contrasts lie the black 
thoughts and sick arguments. 

Through the comets who will shoot 
bleeding flag?

Satish Verma