Waist-High Sunk

When you release the words, your curled fingers burst into flame. It was an ancient filth, a bird fighting in the mud- house of quote-unquote. Someone navigated over the bald heads to find a landing place for a cuckoo. Between real and fiction, you cannot write a hymn in praise of satan, called god. I am done with the darkness all around, and rip open the wall to let in the jupiter. Satish Verma