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He runs a home but he is not a man
cooks food and eats as if in a graveyard
and wishes to execute others,
for it is a means of survival.
Not a saviour of medieval age
like Nanak to bless villagers
who desert and settle elsewhere with limits
not as loafers or workers but as owners
and he often tells a cheat,
that is the principle of life, a new man feels.
A backbone of isolation fixed in the walls,
hung on a vacant brooch with legs upside-down,
a torso of wonder and fate, as lips look sealed,
for there is salvation in escaping from truth,
he believes and so he grows.
Plans and desires not to divulge,
pretense is fitting and so he steals and eats alone.
He is anxious but breathing upsets
lice he calls all, I know a vermin,
tells he and devours parasites,
walks like a statuette, stays inert and calls it life
in a just born century, intent to live in this age
of blasphemy and fiction.
Theorizes a ruler or a lord quietly
as fear of death haunts.
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