Poetry

Long night will start the pincer movement; 
pyrexia is rising. 
Something like an extraterrestrial hand 
digs deep in the mind to open the tomb 
to unravel the tragedy of nuts and bolts 
which could not fix 
the mutation of the hour of death. 
 
Dark blinking lashes of soul 
measures the cliffs of silence 
and then pours the hot red 
vermilion in parted wisdom of sky. 
 
The clang of bones again penetrates 
the liver. The green flaming jelly of 
innocent bellies. 
The hyacinth is choking the village pond 
hiding the corpses of precious flowers 
with green blood. 
 
One day foundation of skeletons will build a 
temple of hope.