Poetry

The peace has a random price;
buried by sea of volition in knee deep puddles of
saline mud, being in being, after the crash,
to keep dissent alive.

Tell me, how did you go in arc light
in the middle of death, plunged in icy delights
of bloody waters? Prevailing withdrawl
spills the counts in endless moments,

of permanence and deceit, a face was
present at one time in two canvases;
the despondency was victorious in kelp,
of arboreal moon, night drips orally.

When the future comes in nesting birds,
I will search the eggs of cuckoo, before
I know you again; the venus-fly trap for hidden
kiss will open the honey glands.


Satish Verma