In Reverse

Just unbound, the death rate. Red roses had no qualms. Numbers, unapologetic, they die or commit suicide. Death had no tombs. One by one they cross the stream, sinking half, floating half in a cynic system, heedless, emaciated, eyes looking beyond, cavernous. They kiss the doors, will not comeback, pilgrims of grapes or hemlock, dead on the toes of rehearsals, dried milk in breasts and pounding of metaphors. The mankind stripped of songs drifting from one forest to another. SATISH VERMA