Little Truths

Deluge of criminality in the moral night; sun was taking a plunge on the falls, in the name of cobbled up front, for our rise and fall in the primary casuality. Sacred contusion, on the floor of mausoleum, when you smell like a forgotton god, and lie in the generosity of asylum under the downy mildew. You cannot cry in the armless death. History begins with starvation and murders of innocents between the blasts. Spiders were fattening on walls eating untangled, discarded syllables. Punishment of defeat makes you a sex slave. The ash smeared body must lie on doormat. SATISH VERMA