Poetry

The milk run appears like
flesh trade. A bigamous
marriage with two ideologies.

The politics looks like
a fudged slogan. The silence
was broken by screams.

A dwindling faith, could
not revive the ancient Buddha.
There was no pity, no sorrow.

Activism wades on home-
turf. The colossal night
releases the lynx vision.

I am the cipher, you
said, will not connect
to any integer.