Poetry

Empty hands were trying to collate
the fallout after the trigger moment
invited the unwelcome guest
wearing explosive vest.

It gives a push to throw away the paper
and I walk up to the ink for a
new chapter. The squinting sun was
not able to break the stoic silence of adoration.

A pervasive ambition spreads out
on the breads of poor dreams.
Pay no attention, pay no respect to the falling
patriach. Daughters of broken stars were rising.


Satish Verma