Clouds and Roads

On a sizzling riverbed, how many suicides will make up the loss of a green moon ? Must we count our rags in sleep ? Victims of a manipulated music of bricks ! I thought, I will give you more, taking less of you , have finally laid to rest the attacking needles in the black holes of flesh. In rains we will cry endlessly. Another promise broken, would watch the stars to set forth the eggs. A melon sweetens the tongue of dissenters and robes are taken off after the helicopter crash. On the palms opium grows, bubbles learn to float with the words of priests who were reciting hymns to anoint the new incumbent, will start the black magic again for mass slimming. SATISH VERMA