Poetry

A severed head sits upright on mud floor
coruscating in moonlight. It was a meditating
Buddha with eyes downcast after a perfect death.

With indecent exposure there was no artifact
to celebrate. The steel was rusted and the name
erased from the asylum.

You walk like a stranger in your home,
possessed, in merciless purity. The greatness
of unbeliever touches a giant guilt.


Satish Verma