Predatory

Surge of rage in domes of violence skins the history, becomes a frozen embryo of genetic markers, shimmers in society, race and native shirts. Enters into the creation of a saga accomplished by advancing poppies; there was no connection to ancestors. Brutalizing golden dawn leaves a bitter taste. They were fighting with broken swords. Virgin flesh becomes moon face, bloats for a fatal jump, on to the widow’s peak of a dancing star at sun-set point. The innocence cleaves the night to implant the bride’s lips. I am lost in a sheared landscape there is no singing tree. SATISH VERMA