With Licorice

Throw yourself on a time bomb howling, breaking the words, twisting the letters, reciting a prayer after the rise of a monomania in the face of mankind. I am becoming poorer everyday by grace of filth all around. Cannot hear myself now in the marching band of curses and abuse; a scion hides a fawn from the eyes of wild bulls. A hierarchy of buried skeletons, spineless dinosaurs lying under the shadows of technicolor maps and letting freeze the time. The music was lapped by passersby. The world was moving in circle. Satish Verma