CHRONIC WAIT

When a full moon was taking a bath 
by the serene lake, you moved about in 
abandoned identity, your sides flaring up. 

A slate gray nubion cloud was tossed 
around by a tall tree. Hotstepping you despaired 
to prevent a stillbirth of a genre 

in genocide of anonymous flora viberating 
in cyberscape of ominus sentences. The 
exhibitionist was taking over the podium. Petit mal 

brings the heels down of worshippers anointing 
a pair of sandals. Someone goes a non-linear 
fashion, denies the holocaust and howling. 

Hospice was needed for non-believers in any 
case. A continuum of exurbs intercedes in the 
slaughter of bovine names.

Satish Verma