Poetry

Vision was searching an eye, 
when you were pelting stones 
on virgin roses. 

It was a season of 
undertaking fast on streets 
to change the afternoon of people’s war. 

This verdict had antique fangs 
of cracked jaws. The sex seekers 
were finding the pollen dust on thighs. 

A hiss becomes a snake 
on trembling lips, ready 
to stun eyelashes, turning on a god. 

Cow dung will clean the pollution 
of faithful minds for graceful entry 
into the charities of inferno.

Satish Verma