Unhitching

You come home,
to a genocide of sperms.
A storm was brewing
to implode;
cloning a wooly origami.

What was the philosophy
of living indefinitely?
Silence was the biggest
noise of spoons.

You were not entitled
to inherit the state,
kissing the trophy of a
beggared man.

Detachment with
upholstery might work.
Take a candle and
read the name on the
black wall.

Satish Verma