The Myth Of Truths

After you gave me a
split rupture,
there was a mirror pain.

The bruises get away
without mercy. A hand will
write reversely a poem.

You cannot erase
the stink, which comes from
the mouthless words.

And the triangle
will eat the floating bodies
of bloated dreams.

Who always chased
me with subtlety, when
hills were crumbling.

Moon becomes lunatic.

Satish Verma