Poetry

A midnight craft 
dumps the moon 
on a heap of deceits. 
I ask my sap to turn back for truism. 
 
It was a question of spacing 
between the bodies 
in scapegoats; 
coming for slaughter. 
 
A scale measures the depth 
of defeats. The hands 
were busy in mending the 
walls of psychiatric ward. 
 
Have you ever tasted a white 
poison, sweet in taste? 
When you grow old, you will 
look like your father. 
 
The name which was absent 
in calendar, was found everywhere.