Poetry

Do not go like a rose,
stay like poinsettia.
Now as a brutal encounter
holy color will descend.

Polygonal wound was too proud
to bleed on the street.
The scarlet morning will bring
night’s blood.

And mystery of love between
outcasts will never smell the hate.
Insane discretion wraps a baby
of a cloud to argue for parents.

Questions are raw like sea
rocks under the hoofs of a
whiny horse. I had found you
sitting in a graveyard.



Satish Verma