An experimental poem with an unconventional structure

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You say, what is the laminated sign waiting for in its sepia red?

I tell you it is waiting for silvery lake like you.

Dawn on the havocs that wait for you

scratching the putrid chairs, coagulating the doors.

Relinquishing toward the drop how fashioning is the brandishing torrent and it's thick stenches?

Which is a sanguine starry sky of directions

million or twenty-seven, sought

on a bridge or in the cosmic serenity

directions of the hand, a calculation in your feet.

Expand on the abberations that wait for you

scratching the rigid chairs, twisting the doors.

By Mumukshu D.C.

From: Nepal

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