Poetry

Changing thoughts 
were creating chaos in frenzy, 
unabashed, following the stricken 
prey, to reclaim 
the violence of a stalker. 
 
Was there any law of jungle? 
Or rule of law in the midstream 
of a formless prosthesis, 
gaping void, throwing up 
a primordial fear. 
 
Becoming tired of looking at 
the wastes around. No mystery 
was left in life. How often you 
will sit on the pyre to ignite the high 
priests of knowledge? 
 
The curved images of receding 
years are disappearing. How long 
you will wait, 
how long?