Poetry

A missile in the home,
what they have done?
You are on flames.

A red smoke rises
from bottomless hole.
Memory slumps.

A glow in pain washed
cells, calls the mirror.
Instead, grave diggers arrive.

This was the manufactured truth
of the eternal kiss
of death. I stretch my arms

to feel the terror.
The walls start crying.
There was no roof.


Satish Verma