Solitudes

The questions hang like skin tags. A broken mirror, stabs during birth of time. We have got to do it, save it in its infancy, before it is submerged along with the temple of fake gods :- before it is plagiarized by the polity. The wives were fattening on art of running the state from behind the curtains. Would you like to sign on my skin ? Your death wish ? I am washing my sins today. It is bit cold here in the blue lake of tears. Now you can hold my arm for final plunge. Satish Verma