Poetry

Ignite the barren clay, I need
some rare elements
to tie a thread to the moon.
Upstaging the sun.

Not aspirational he was stripped
to become radical
like the dark blood of a white soul.

Pentadactylous was losing the big toes
under the burning skies
of unmindful eyes. The system

was collapsing. One premature
innocence dies defore the guilt
was proved, in the howling night of terror.

He unrolls the thighs to show the stitched
corn. The seeds step out to prove
the adolescence of crime.

Satish Verma