FABRIC

Throwing the prosthesis, he jumped for 
numericals, refusing to expand, 
walk with father of sorrow 
the revolutionary. 

He wanted to talk as an equal 
in interpretation of truth about death 
and God, the new incumbent 
of faith. 

An aptness to spill the blood on 
your face, of some recent slaughter, 
as a witness of dying for peace, 
as soothing law of nature. 

He wears the fabric of inspiration: 
the city and streets are empty 
weaving the welts of pain, 
for nothing.

Satish Verma