The wheels find,
the track on my body...

Confessional truth
is not my aggressive ego...

What do I do with the words?
They hurt, they flourish without thoughts...

In the culture of self, and wilting idol
who was going to interpret the truth...

Skylit my bright atrium,
pumps the future...

Everybody was in hurry to unpack
the sins and reshuffle the names...

The pain of the night,
flows in the blood...

Rain, come again,
full of promise & truth...

No one owned the tears,
a tale of frozen pain...

The eerie exodus of rage
from crashing domes...

Self - immolating silence
softens the pain, an art of solitude...

There was a geometric progression
in movement of truth and dreams...