Foeticide

Ends did not meet, like beginnings, fact was insulted by fiction: the newborn stuns the God. Drop by drop life drips from ankles. Desolation takes advantage, forgets the path, becomes self-centered. Dialect changes, to taste the foul heritage, cadaver breaks the glass jar. Foeticide of a flute, overnight the soft face becomes dark. Orange moon floats like an empty boat. Waves burn for the sake of swollen lids of time. The essence of lies weaves a theme a skull rolls down on a slide laughing like sin of omissions. Night screams. A hot sun glows from the window. SATISH VERMA