Half-Closed Lids

This nothingness was overwhelming. When words fail to tell the facts, only silence talks. That brutal interrogation of self to undo the decline, like a a viper in your home. The mortgaged glow of stoned infant in the exiled land, brings the exodus of shrunken legs. A shadow survives on the debris of frozen voices, sluicing through the cries. Open the stitches of night. Death was skirting the prison. No ropes. No ropes. SATISH VERMA