Poetry

Basking in brothels of mighty corridors,
who was seeking an annulment
of lemon grass for enquiring into the
genesis of mutilation?

It was a terrifying situation for
a smell, drifting on the tarrif of
polity when fingers were busy
to dig in the flesh of victims.

Cleric wants to dictate the rhyme
of poetry distilled from anger.
Hundreds of thousands of monarchs were flying
in defence of dementia. The age was awry of death.

Close your eyes and listen to the sound
of melting. Somebody is drawing the green blood.
Dismembered, I swagger barefoot
on the steps of black clouds to take revenge.



Satish Verma