Wanderer

It was a taxidermal view thousands of fawns on the lake. Can you handle the die-off of the whole truth? I have nowhere to go. Genes are turning on, turning off. Bare hands holding the bruises. Hungry, but cannot eat looking at the tattoos on the back of starving children. I am sick these days in the midst of glory and shame. Faithlessness is a prize wrapped by shadows. The snakes are climbing on the walls. Human things, like chimps kissing and hugging to calm down. in memoriam of a lost tribe. The body of a chaste god lies buried under the debris of unholy secrets. Homeless I wander, beneath the high sky. SATISH VERMA