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

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