Poetry

Do not want to foresee;
the unknown me. On the tip
of tongue a stunted silence with singularity

sits. Me and my lantern burn
in dark. Thumbs down: the compact
seeking in failed state alters the future generation.

A reverse pain flows out of sunken
eyes. The perpetrator of bloodbath
wants forgiveness from the toddlers.

This side of a shadow, on the other bank,
a rustic river throws up a stabbed body
of a sailor. Another prologue for the sinking ship.

The rats grumble, bite the dead child of
sunlight. The sky bares the candid toys
of velvety jinx, the robots taking over the throne.


Satish Verma