Unhitching

by Satish Verma

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.

27-Apr-2013

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