Matchmakers

non compos mentis my monologue, non-believer will say, it was insult of salt, under the bark, white ants were climbing, boring into sap, kneeling, at war with yourself, disinheriting the loud blood, you want to thwart the murky ariel to scour the black mass at belly, the dynasty ends in obscene hugs, grievers want to be forgiven for the sake of kneading truth on merciless palms: it kills the headache, the eyes, the vistas of bleeding expansion SATISH VERMA