Sinking Boatmen

The name, went begging to yield. Dispute was becoming a point of disorder. A fire on ice, I was burning inside. Unabated, the storm was raging in bush. The candor was lost. We were drying up in shade. One eccentric nerve poison was spreading. We will forego, the face and wear masks to hide our swollen lips and private chastity. A hairless loathing is born. Unless you are a condemned shadow, the portrait will stand in a corner for an unwritten crime, disfiguring the moon of tomorrow. Satish Verma