Feet of Clay

Who am I to know the abstract silence when you drink the moonlight all alone ? The black toes of a dying woman haunt me in a stream of white shrouds. A night of shattering perceptions, defaults and ignorance. Time bomb was ticking. It had been troubling me the betrayals in night mothering a vegetable past. A single finger defines the authority of future. I traced the proud shadows of a god for, a useless reference of illegible wisdom, untold misery of green waves mirrored in sky. For extracting death from life at every step I knew the answer. Dying was not a private thing. The truth and the path would die. How you dreaded the closed doors? The explicit fear of drowning in beliefs with brothers of sorrow and feet of clay. SATISH VERMA