Poetry

It was lack of contusion.
The relief had not come. Hours
were on after the nobility moved
on faulted track.
Methane was rising.

It was white death:
people were coming, people were going.
Pure and muddy, the treachery was
like trace gases in a mine.
Anytime the explosion will take place.

The children were shrinking
I do not speak. Watch the flowerpots flying.
All the celestial deities have entered the lake.
Take a quick dip in the nude serenity.
Time was slipping out from the aquarium.

Satish Verma