Serene Revenge

Unmoored in twilight, my most visible hands were ready to slam on the moon of stains to bring out the water of life. A secondhand night was waiting for an explosion, which never came. How long will we go to find the peace in surrogate truths surrounded by thorns on lips ? I was hanging a painting of a fall in happy valley of gender artists, which I never appreciated. The high heeled power of legs was no match to beautiful nails. The walk on the ramp betrayed the ancient footfalls reaching nowhere to nothingness on revolving planet. The masqueraders are still roaming free on parole to snatch a prize for extraordinary darkness generated by stars on the faces of orphans tattooed by the whips of silence, after all they were flung flowers. Satish Verma