Poetry

There was a belief in street sense
for an extended purpose
of fire-eating.
Shadow of past was condensing
into future.
The ascending serenity had pockmarks.

Meeting your assigned killer,
in a dark alley for forgetfulness;
earth was ready to disown you
and the warriors were waiting
for an ambush.
But you wanted to enter the no man’s land of understanding.

There was a suicide
from the edge of a rock. I am.
Eyes were swelled with tears,
washing the feet which were immersed in flowing blood.
They hunted for the bones
to built a golden throne.


Satish Verma