Poetry

Battle remains between
white and black,
a synthetic truth
and a bald faced hornet.

Aching violence was spreading
on moon. I was tossing around
the stars placing the apostrophe
in the end.

There was a conflict in pain
and the pill. It was a prelude to the
carrier of a gun. Father was degenerating
in his son’s boots.

The social split was widening
in the gulf of posterity. You dress
as a bride to receive the punishment
from the hands of arrogance.


Satish Verma