The Prodigal Son

Priest or thinker,
you wanted a moral engagement.

Moon shined,
You were waiting for a
prophet or saint.

It was pointless,
boat will not arrive. Standing
on beach, your journey ends here.

The sun was too hot. The
umbrella conceals the face
of a motivator. Nobody wants
to touch the fast of dead god.

Irisis shrink. Hole becomes
larger. Now I cannot hate myself.
The blue jewels have become lumps
of wasted stones.

You start diverting
the green death of infallible,
and become real.

Satish Verma