The Atavism

Satish Verma

The cannibalism was back. 
You were eating yourself 

The guts spilt, 
would meet the dust, 
in abode of earthworms. 

They creep and burrow 
and bury the organic themes. 
Unpolluted, untouched. 

The bowels undulate, 
to the thumping rhythm, 
of greedy feet. White eagles? 

How far this digging 
of gold mines will go? 
Someone had swallowed the glitter. 

Black birds are joining 
the procession of 
empty hearses.