INVERTED

A tribal instinct stops the nemesis: 
Spraying the blood-soaked, small 
foot prints on my chest; 
unlocking, I accept 
myself. 

Why contained anger 
of awesome ache over the periphery? 
Through the atrophied, black limbs - 
an elite infusion of trespassing knowledge? 
The green adolescence was waiting in chains. 

The hoarseness as from a cyanosed throat 
after the sips of hemlock, the brave ascending 
of a gaint stroke on the cheeks of death; 
the dust will sing a farewell 
to a river of tears! 

End was not me on the chainsaw 
a chamomile will wipe the blemishes of the Grail.

Satish Verma