Poezja

Handcuffed, you digress
from the vacuity. A bucket
full of hymns, will not―
erode, the fog of winter.
 
Let us start telling the
unsaid things of monstrous life.
The milk bath, the roaring and
the panther in the dry well.
 
The cortical pain, seeps into
the medulla. You will not find
a single soul, who will talk
about the fall.
 
The clocks are being moved
to save the light―
which splinters into myriad
faces, when you scream.