Poetry

Sometimes it pours like hot
drips of melted wax from a candlestick;
your migraine.

I wanted armistice.
Untangle the lies,
I am not in your firing line.

The tulips in the barrel of your gun
cannot forgive the bullets.
There will be no ceremony after the funeral.

Give a slice of blue departure
of moon to light the beach,
there was a brutal murder on the lake

among the muffled waves of protest
in the home of insanes, who were
praying for the sun to return.


Satish Verma