And the lineage of existence
does not fade.

I try to wipe off, the heavy showers of
death, daily.

The pains were rising, in every word,
in every talk.

As part of nothingness, I was trying to find
happiness.

Put the shadows down, touch the questions
again.

The mentor wants blood, truth was in body,
small seeds of life.

Wrapped up, dry, cryptic, to suck at the
fears of birth.

You are becoming a tree, roots, branches, leaves
against a serial killer.

Satish Verma