A black hole detonates itself to stigmatize the substance. Now a silk road leads to sight and touch. A scarecrow starts screaming. Sky was falling on fire. The space becomes deviant. Chopped hands were drawing the tattoos of winged feet.
Put off the lantern. I am waiting for the moon’s primal face. The lesser flamingoes were going to shed the pink color. Nude as a python, the kiss of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation. I suffer in the hands of protests.
It was night sin of domesticity. Dyed, I am loading the white secret of pain in the hollow of a mayhem. Till every blunder takes a downward flight striping the outsized image of a kill. His flames are now singeing