bones scuffle among themselves for a pound of flesh and aspire to lick a drop of blood their sounds muffled whispers through torn patches over the torn patches stitched mockingly taunting arrogantly their havenotness

two rows of canoes carved awfully into the ribs move a little with each breath triggered by an uneasy sigh tugging at the hangman's noose naked penury crafted into emptiness and sunken eyes

the bags of bones battling fighting jostling groaning go to bed beneath the broken bridges long abandoned and sleep in desert on footpaths in rain in soot on stones on bones

the stars shine in purple black the black on bones quivers and the last pound of flesh stretches taut on the throng of canoes heaving in tandem and one big boat with an immense void

when the big boat feeds on the crumbs' last morsel the canoes in joy squeak heaving a sigh of relief for the moment for that moment

thereafter the canoes know not what is the next surge in the ebb and flow of the river of putrid blood

ravindra tandon