Brittle Bums

Like little yelps off on air, butting their way through waves
Like scoundrels sweeping soil off zeal to trip into the office
Like ploughs pulling cowsheds off base to seal their fate
Looted symbols scurry in swathes tipping over at places

Outlined by severely articulated shelved speeches
In their hopes of burial to the day
The last lead lets off a haze
Figures in furtive glances in the direction looking not for action, but erection

Plied by triumphs and long loved others
In compliance of jetting through the plan
The seethed sickle froths since debarred
In their little rulers, ride some retard

Rigged and foul, smelling off their brims
Garbed in goons, geared for gutters
Heaving a silent prayer to not being uncovered
They pull over at effigies of opponents and dance their way to deal the dead

The killer sets its eyes on the dawn
Upscale tombs become a marquee on the spot
Trying to kite the frills, the gutted guild their mark
On dry fields, they stumble to sting the fart

Fallen figures drivel on theirs in apathy
Inking paper with schooled celebacy
Finding feud to furnish their fiddle
They remark on the rocks as if they were the cause of fever

© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017-2018

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