In a wasp moment―
alone with myself
I was struggling to find the signs.
This was an out-of-body
war, a preemptive
strike to wipe off the imperial
message of unknown.
Was it the fault and
sludge of the common man to override
the gratuity of existence?
The primal animus still
goes on. Meaningless, you
repeat the mantras, all of them
to appease Kali.
Like an adult, punched
in face, you want to start again
the ontogeny.
Do you believe in black art?
A sculptor will never become extinct!
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 23rd, 2019 20:32
- Category: Nature
- Views: 7
- User favorite of this poem: whisperingquill.
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