Poetry

that has been, was so raven
that you were hugging vanity
for the deportation of death
as a living;

fake predicates of a genius
like words falling as bucketfuls
of lies,

back to back coffer dams
collapsing, submerging

seers sarcophagi,

and the annual rings were becoming
deeper, mossed in misery,
his book of moon blackened,

goodbye, the dark unsinkable,
I am going to be reborn
in the abyss of my own sorrow


Satish Verma