Poetry

It was like spidural
dry crumbs of silence descending,
a still born sun popped out
through a raw hoematoma:

mountain was guilty of something,
it changed its mood and started
talking to clouds until the sky
turned crimson. The fountains had

a question for the bald owls, who under
the lidless eyes, always carried a massage
of colossal waste after the unholy
dinner. I know your glory was beckoning

to unflesh the bones in mass grave
of winged seeds who died in unsewn
pods of violence. I have still not come to
terms with the neck high milkless gaze.


Satish Verma