MOCKINGBIRDS

Have-beens went into fury. 
Like silkworms, after the shock 
spinning the myths around them. 

Then the gossip will turn towards 
the words, locked in extra 
sensory awakening. 

The gametes move in a chasm, 
needling the pastoral scorn. 
From the barrel of a gun flows the religion. 

Spreading the thighs and baking 
the sweet croissants. Will the honey 
heal the wounds? 

Of centuries? Moon god to moon god 
under the swaying palms 
man still cannot bring the house in order.

Satish Verma