Poetry

A leached amputee
living with stumps of flawless
dying.

Round and round, blindfolded
moving in circle, drawn by rhyming
bells.

Perhaps you need to suffer
with the drunken race of
snipers.

I am in the silent valley of
barefoot secrets where moon waits to
die.

The poppies will buy the bullets,
a gift to unending kiss of
grief.

Tell every vulture on the tree,
there is endless arrival of
feasts.


Satish Verma