Poetry

My ultimate reply was 
my silence. There was― 
no need to ward off any 
further questions. 
 
It was time to take 
a call of the ominous. Clouds 
are dark and menacing. You 
wanted the poverty of words to go. 
 
But it enters again by back door, 
standing along with you. The 
great divide begins. The day 
was on edge over sick patriarchy. 
 
You will not get the fruits 
nor seeds. Yet the cacti do not 
need any propagation. Full 
of spines, they are hardy. 
 
A fake formula is being put 
forward. Let there be a 
collective suicide to save 
the floundering world. 
 
But I would not agree.