Descending

i make ready myself for an insult and chest pain, keeping unshorn hair like nettles on contours, to take unknown turns for restoring the clouds on moon-blue hills, spreading the water colors on trees; someone inside the shrine was making turbulence: yellow room has the footprints of a naked fakir, after the apocalypse, who walked eyes closed on the burning ghats, his rags are now worshipped, the later years found the darkness glowing in the furnace of propped up body by roses,roses all the way, he tells the hanging man, how tall were the poles, with song SATISH VERMA