Poetry

Beings of erotica were
at the gates of heaven.
Shell-shocked, the city was becoming political
but people were absconding.

It was global warming
for obscenity. The remoteness
was collapsing and moons
had come in my arms.

Smoking the serrated leaves
and glandular hairs, hurling
yourself on the pathway to estasy
to forgive and to forget.

The blue mercury was
ascending. Anti-depressants were
not working. You don’t own the
phrases. Words were becoming surrogate

for thoughts. We embrace the fall.

Satish Verma