Reckless Winds

Return to an old style.
I hold the breadth, crippled in
grip. No deterrence. I want your drink.

Let me become intro-
spective. I am god, creating moon’s
corona. Everyone looks schizophrenic.

Roses in summers were
sad. No color sticks. Only flowing
blood was red. Butterflies disappear.

The poet feels soffocated at the way things are happening in the world.

Rajendra Singh Baisthakur , Nellore, AP, 524003