Artificial Grass Poem by Naman Bagaria.

Deceit slithers across the vessel

embracing the stench

of the 'would-be carcass'.

A feast bestowed by

the imminent descent

awaits to serve

the new peasant king,

whose realm

is as torrid

as the desires

that demand

his presence there.



His eternity

now rubbernecks

the obscene art

which subsists

only by gulping

feverishly on

delicious torments

and mourns

to witness the

silent testimony

of the sullied design

and preventable death.