Drunk with pride the streets are bursting in self-indulgence. Who was calling the shots?
Do you know the words between intermissions carry a secret till the brazen scoop finds the hidden meaning.
It was grave very grave truce, unmaking love between the estranged lovers when clouds were seducing the moon.
You don't belong to this crowd of renegades. Ants will take away the divorced dreams.
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Fissile belly has started showing signs of reckoning. A gloom has settled, gyrating in a sunken garden for the hung corpses.
Never cruel were the times before when blind needles were unstitching the lips of frozen faces. I refuse to start a prayer till the grass covers a silent tomb.
Last night, it had rained on the private flesh. It was full of semen. You do not belong to this world of pregnant pause.
