Poetry

The battlelines were drawn.
While drinking the sun
set myself ablaze

A hooded dilemma
of his kindness
starts boiling in chaotic dissonance.

A backlash stops a self-search.
Who am I and why do I belong
in the spinning of descent.

There were flames in every home
and biting dust of the moon.
Where the man will go.

The birth’s print and death’s answer
had the bidding game.
I was standing in the middle.




Satish Verma