Poetry

wanted to send a call to me
sitting in a flowing traffic of life, a sinister,
sadistic happiness to see the disasters

coming home, in triangle of death,
for visitation of a nihilistic visual, the wedding
of taxidermal violence, at scope of frugal

clay, moulding the age of anxiety
because there were enough girls to be raped
and hunger was disconnecting the tribes

in camps, the bunkers were safe haven
for daunting, unremembered prodigal sons;
the vultures were dying daily,

you were outcast, a sleepwalker in dark,
confronting the boundaries of labiate palms


Satish Verma