THE HELL IS REAL

They lure me with wealth in heaven
as if plucking a pubic hair
would reduce weight of the dead body

they don’t see the bruises abandoned
on the fading skin of apple
that rolls metaphors in the basket

sleeplessly I watch her drift in dreams
on the horizon float to descend
for a share in the horrors of earth

they blindly conceal to hoodwink
god’s will for poets cultured in the past
now glittering as the sun’s wreckage

I can’t clean nor rebuild around them
the hell is real I can’t run away
with sweet nothing, I can’t die in bluff

R K Singh