Poetry

Immensity of deviation was exploding.
Abruptly my frail frame collapsed.
I did not know the answers. I was lost
in my inner sanctum, full of hollow escapes.

The ugly ‘ism’ was devastating. Not in,
not out. I was blowing up in a burnt out moon,
pure as sin, prodding, writhing,
stuck in tar, melting in hot sun.

As a projection of inner violence, a psychopath
shoots an innocent on the temple, forsaken, revengeful.
No qualms for grazing the godhood,
the voice of sanity remains sitting on a toad stool.

The fairy rings are growing larger and larger,
sanaria shrinking. Epileptic paranoia overpowering
outside, I am sick, but relentless, the shadow disappears
in valley, down the memory. I let go the blurred spirit,
in a fit of rage, standing alone.