Dust Grafted

Fractious smokescreen between celestial reflection and contempt floats on a shaken rug. You cannot stand still incognito. The indictment stinks for the impoverished vicitims who make history through to the bones. Grappling after theft, interstitial existence falls like glass pieces nowhere, black and bleeding. A robust chorus rises against resistance of strips. The ocean rides on snails. Hills threaten to go partisan ways. The division had started the perennial conflict. A pebble is thrown in the pond. A racist moon becomes a living doll. SATISH VERMA