Cult Of Lynching

Mountains were coming down to
never-home,
in surreal rebuff to shaking earth;
emerging from the shadows of sky.

In groping for the legs
this was the myth of lynching.
You are drenched in the rains
of promises.

A kiss for each lethal penetration,
for global time-
you are becoming a wasteland
borne out of swollen fingertips-

who would not write any name.
The many words of pain are finding
a new meaning from the vocabulary
of conceit and betrayals.

A deliberate isolation brings
the sound sleep to ashes to become a thing.