One Anthos

Someone connects a bonsai to elemental peat. Your visual collides a clay bite of water, deepening the bottom of invisible fence. My primrose was waiting for you. Polychromes become volatile. An inventive missile leaves the trace for a predator to scoop an angel. I was afraid of wrinkles, the disjunctive pain. Only an insane can walk over the fire. The cat’s claw will take hold of freedom, the bleeding wound of mutual hate. I sit listening to ceasefire, shirtless soldiers cleaning their guns, you still seek the empty vessel. SATISH VERMA