Poetry

Was it a summer storm of sexuality?
Only the chaste statue stood in threads,
and then went down the cuticle
with nipple rings.
The demand of namelessness was rising

in the dim shadows of brisk tones.
To step down from sanity, a clown
was ready to become a hunchback.
Inserting the name of cupid in the missing years
the theme will encircle the house.

First conceived as a rose, its petals
are covering your cleavage
and our poor kids are slaughtered without
a surveyor. Do not read between the blood streams,
the solf face has become a bomber.

Of eternal rage, colours are moving
from red to gray. Ash was filling the empty bottles.


Satish Verma