Carried My Father Unside

Mirror to mirror a face floated in anguish the mourning was deep whenever inquest for truth was made. Was it so terrible? I cannot read the human face. We were so used to wear the masks. Stoned and deaf, fuzzy kiss of death levels the ferocious peak. The nameless murder of truth got a reward. Garden of strange foliage slurred on a song. A metaphysical experience sniffs the life. Chained to the probity of the city I bowed my head. Reluctant to move in a procession of ugly months. Lifetime’s nostalgia lifted a veil. No sleep will descend. I still carry my father inside. SATISH VERMA