Cult of Lynching

Mountains were coming down to never-home, in surreal rebuff to shaking earth; emerging from the shadows of sky. In groping for the legs this was the myth of lynching. You are drenched in the rains of promises. A kiss for each lethal penetration, for global time- you are becoming a wasteland borne out of swollen fingertips- who would not write any name. The many words of pain are finding a new meaning from the vocabulary of conceit and betrayals. A deliberate isolation brings the sound sleep to ashes to become a thing. Satish Verma