Stripping To the Bones

Now me, now not, a thought is always there. My genes navigate on collapsing walls, words, dark mind, broken dreams. But thought is always there. I hold on firmly to sounds, voices, tongues, the thought is always there. Brain goes into a nameless friction, of aimless voyage I rediscover the myth and abandon the zone of thoughts. Distance becomes a wailing music. Sitting between the flesh and bones I recognise the relic of a window. Let us drop the years, become timeless, empty and hollow. Egocentric wind violates the lungs. We cannot sing in praise of earth. I walk through the body, stripping to the bones, to find the seeds. I refuse to pluck the flowers. SATISH VERMA