There was a geometric progression
in movement of truth and dreams...

Give me your lips
I have to drink the dark night...

Blood splatters on walls,
on earth. Erstwhile anointed idol...

Mob hurts you
when you were standing alone in a crowd...

Mirror to mirror
a face floated in anguish...

When your lies pretend to be truths,
Your house becomes full of cadavers...

A squirrel on a stone bull
revives a genre...

How sad you had been
without wholeness for the...

Blows had blackened the mist,
fear of crossing the road, dented the veil...

The tryst with path,
was full of voices of silence...

It hurts, the abstract isolation of life
emptying of self...

You gave me a name without asking.
History of my pain...