Passion Is a Hurricane

Ending of the thought does not bring a lull. It is a sequel beyond my reach. An old extrication, I dig for my roots. The forgotten names, the unhealing wounds of a doctrine, a tiny memory of pulsating embryo, not yet born ! Fear generates a kill. Ferocious movement inside the cells slowly, you become zero without a center. The tangent skips on your surface. Claustrophobia. You start breaking the walls. Fighting anxiety & shame a timeless timber without a foliage. My ignition point is hurt in the new culture of game. How we approach the road, which smells the death, blood or smoke? The passion is a hurricane. Uproots all the bones, shatters all the roots. A glory reckons after a while, for the election of sorrow. SATISH VERMA