Falling

Something impossible would happen. Truth was too much to operate, life was easy with fakes. Neither mortal pain, nor needles would mend the wounds. The chasm was deepening.And I stitch the orange lights with the kisses of green tears. For the punishment of disjointed commitments, I dream of the killings standing on the corpse of faith. The obscene slogans raise the dust, of hate crimes. The color of the race was spreading, on bellies, on stones. The night will bring spiralling comets in the sky, burning and emptying the pure. SATISH VERMA