Consumption

The peace has a random price; buried by sea of volition in knee deep puddles of saline mud, being in being, after the crash, to keep dissent alive. Tell me, how did you go in arc light in the middle of death, plunged in icy delights of bloody waters ? Prevailing withdrawl spills the counts in endless moments, of permanence and deceit, a face was present at one time in two canvases; the despondency was victorious in kelp, of arboreal moon, night drips orally. When the future comes in nesting birds, I will search the eggs of cuckoo, before I know you again; the venus-fly trap for hidden kiss will open the honey glands. SATISH VERMA