Twilight

On periphery of gestures and casts I speak for fading integrity while a fossil of a scream was stolen from the womb of language. On becoming silent, an untitled truth shakes sensibility. Small vignettes track the battleships of calligraphy. The sermons wage a war. The saints praised the puffed up sheep, suffered the asylum of Atlantic for astral hopes to cross the folds of virginity. Splashed motherhood refused the onslaught of tears. You make inadequate love, exiled in intimacy. Blood-drowned statements will not make to the surface of time. Century moves not for you, not for me, not for him. SATISH VERMA