It was the vehicle-night of freedom,
by Pinaki Dewan
Torture-bells sighing in weird harmony;
Frenzied, bonafide, downsized feelings
In cups of hungry tides.
Bookish leaves glowering for touch,
Memories in piles of utility bills,
A crippled chair in a corner of the sky,
And inhuman hides.
The mirror-paints are drenched in blood now,
Wooden feet tied to water;
There is rust in the lips of conviction,
And fever in man's strides.
In desperate measures of control,
Only the little chalks are lost;
While distances laugh their asses off,
The blackboard subsides.