STRANGE ENEMIES

If the lineation wins, 
I will not pardon myself 
the dots on flesh will glare. 
A dummy hurricane, 
will envelop the ruinous body. 
The death will stalk and the predators, 
will have the field day. 

My own truth cries for an, 
idea of making a complete suicide 
on table. Inside the guts 
flows a column of skimmed fakes. 
Directions break the geometry of sleeping faith. 
It was not worth trying. 

In mind between the dark and grey, 
lies the pale of truth. 
This perspective is a constant pain. 
Where will the thoughts end 
and the ripples begin? 
Arguments have become 
strange enemies in war of words.

Satish Verma