Stench of Death

Why do you run away from the primordial fear? Of tight emptiness? A shapeless entity of drifting psyche? This was your home where carcasses of cliches hang from the doors of wisdom. Unplanted seeds of vacant connotations. Inch by inch you were eating your prophetic pauses salt had become tasteless. Counting the kisses of moths on the screen a candle burned furiously. I never picked the colors of cloud, of rain, of blood. What becomes of happening, of being, of reaching? The stones of truth are very sharp. The roads were conspiring insects collecting, under the surface. Circling winds had a heavy stench of death but words were very intelligent. SATISH VERMA