Night has yet to sprinkle its shower of slumber onto me,
Perhaps, hast been stunk by the scorpion of anxiety.
So, I’m supposed too, to be the participant
In this ploy of Monseigneur’s venom anxiety.

Quivering about–what might come– “… for the birth of fate.”
Fear is knocking, muzzle flights blast high,
Aggrandizing the weightage of core.

As in the heart of Africa resounds the operatic boom of
Mr Kurtz’s “The Horror, The Horror…” rings hallow.
Thus, every atom is in absolute transfix. Swift rush of the
Spears, popping up from the shadows of labyrinth.

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Apple Valley

Here, screeches explode from the roots of swampy willows.
The macabre cry of humming Casper,
The clinking of metals over the highways,
Shrieking of sirens of the ghastly ambulances,
And the owlets hoot, at the dead o’clock[s] of night,
Unfavourably intervene in the night’s tranquility;
That lulls me to the dreams of nightmare.

Jabalpur vehicles are loaded with the arsenal
And who knows what is new now
Heading on to plunder the swoon sleep of tired dwellers.

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WE HAVE NO PLACE TO LIVE

Ammunition lethal for the bang bang of town base,
Yet my eyes are voluminous, film of horrid dreams flickering…

Editor's Note

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