Poetry

Like an alligator tending her eggs
on tongue, death moves the life
on strength of charisma, overreaches

for requiem and then distributes the raw
moments in subterfuge, we play the game
to cheat each other without shame.

A red carpet is laid on white floor
of the wax house, making gold from
sun rays. The moon bleeds internally.

The rivals come face to face walking
on the ashes of ancestors, ungrieving for the
loss of sperms. Fertility will come in petri dishes

without the name of father. I am here,
obody, ready to unanswer any question.
My stains are becoming darker every day.


Satish Verma