Unworthy Of Book

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.