Immensity of deviation was exploding.
Abruptly my frail frame collapsed.
I did not know the answers.
I was lost in my inner sanctum,
full of hollow escapes.
The ugly ‘ism’ was devastating.
Not in, not out.
I was blowing up in a burnt out moon,
pure as sin, prodding, writhing,
stuck in tar, melting in hot sun.
As a projection of inner violence,
a psychopath shoots an innocent on the temple,
forsaken, revengeful.
No qualms for grazing the godhood,
the voice of sanity remains sitting on a toad stool.
The fairy rings are growing larger and larger,
sanaria shrinking.
Epileptic paranoia overpowering outside,
I am sick, but relentless,
the shadow disappears in valley,
down the memory.
I let go of the blurred spirit,
in a fit of rage, standing alone.
