Poetry

Crush of holy hands
on blue skin of a flame
was the wet revenge
of a withering rose.

That defiant streak bursts
with knowledge of a sin.
White and black,
this was me and my unwrapped flesh.

Dirty glory of a monologue
downs the shutters and takes a plunge
with a chute into the smoking
cauldron of a cult.

In the bed a grave was dug
deep to bury the ashen virtue
of a chopped-up moon,
who had a dream of nonviolence.

Satish Verma