They were ready
to suck the crowd. The child was pushed
into lentil soup, boiling, to appease the rain god.
Shining masks, the celebration starts;
surging a myth, crown of hawthorn,
hallucinating dance.
The people lick their fingers,
feast for claws and incisers
I run for the cross, please wait.
Emptying tomorrow in the lifting
hands of blunt queen. The watercolor
was casting the vote.
A freedom descends on the wounded
legs, as they drag with nobility.
Thumb by thumb you clutch the tree.
Satish Verma
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: April 19th, 2012 21:31
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 25
Offline)
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