Poetry

The name calls the name
spraying the moon with red colour.
It touches a nerve, when there is
standoff on the lake.

A blueish eye invades an iron space
between near solids of docks.
The gap was widening and
the thoughts had a dead punctuation.

The fake and madeup story sit
on my breast. I go for the nakedness
of real thing. A mediocre cool burns
the skill of swans. Waves collapse.

That body was not mine. I lived
in many souls. Invisible floats
my grief in embryo of the
unborn child.


Satish Verma