TRUE SPIN

While tracing a home by charcoal 
on a white paper, I hear, 
a word comes from the wolf. 
A fat was being pumped 
into the face of a tryant to inflate 
him into a giant. 

Butterflies were undulating with 
excitement in an inchoate garden. 
Fidelity was going down and graves 
had no skeletons. 

From the eyes of a lamb you pick 
up a necklace to weave a snare trap. 
Because I would not come back again. 
You catch the dust in chimes.

Satish Verma