Poetry

An image was talking to you
in your mind.
There were fudged voices
of foot soldiers of half-gods.

I was scared of synthetic leaves
and black stars.
It was a most explicit blood dance
baring-all, the hiss of cones.

You wanted to define yourself
by overexposing the bisexual
stain. Celibacy was
unleaping in shadow.

The blessings will not wait.
You stay in coma after the haemorrhage.
The bloodbath will find the answer
in fever of sheer size.

Satish Verma