In a wasp moment―

alone with myself

I was struggling to find the signs.

This was an out-of-body

war, a preemptive

strike to wipe off the imperial

message of unknown.

Was it the fault and

sludge of the common man to override

the gratuity of existence?

The primal animus still

goes on. Meaningless, you

repeat the mantras, all of them

to appease Kali.

Like an adult, punched

in face, you want to start again

the ontogeny.

Do you believe in black art?

A sculptor will never become extinct!