Poetry

A quivering mud lamp under the basil
was sending signals for benign inconsistencies
and a covert interceptor
to stop a death to himself.

It was a no moon day
to monopolize the open eyes
and closed lips. Piercing screams
were coming from the empty chairs.

A garland of currency bills or pink snakes
for the leader breaks the music
of averted eyes. A terror attack
starts frisking the souls.

It wakes up a slumbering century
of fossil books. The birth anniversary
of a smoked thesis starts. The masses
start descending like buzzing flies.



Satish Verma