Poetry

The hurt begins to move
and meets in a funeral procession.

For aging fireworks this was the last chance,
but lake had dried up.

There was no fall tonight of the moon
All the stars had gone for a memorial service.

The candle light vigil begins with a sole survivor.
The genotypes will multiply.

The legend had the last breath
and then walked away in a big whole.

I were you, to take the revenge
from the sobbing me who sent the body
without a soul.


Satish Verma