Patterned thoughts and rhythmic paths stride their way to the mental asylum..

I tried to look out of the cob webbed window just to see the crooked smile of the adulterated few

In the mirror like image of those, was the one whom they called “the better off”

Crowned, robed with a pointer in his hand and the corporate anthem running in the background

He tightened his sleeve, as crisp and white as it could be, tried to hide all that was black around

The word mazes, the small grid lines, as small as they could have been, set a checkered outline

No leakages of thoughts were allowed as they packed themselves in the well defined boundaries

The Dunhill smoke, the plasma, the light from the projector…all set…set to kill!!!

Mind fucked POB…