After a soot rain
the grey fear moved centripetally, seeking centrum;
thoughts, saffron colored, in the words
You were still searching the head,
of a nameless torso, in a heap of your failures.
The river had run dry.
Why were you trying to revise the script
of anthem after the man made inferno?
A mushroom cloud was heading this way.
Ah, the prickly lips still eject the same
agenda for dualism,
now the yellow metal was nickel-plated.
Outside the stoic redemption falls the reality.
Man had become a crypt on a grave
of less guilty.