Poezja

Rhetoric had a theme
like crab-grass to destroy the lawn.
Fly ash had submerged the legacy of sane lips.
The river drifts between the broken walls
of binge soaring. Tension was descending
in the lanterns who were flickering hopelessly.
Was there any need of autopsy of dark secrets?

The terror burns the bed. You don’t get a wink
of sleep. Between bubble and sky, wrapped up
afterlife aches. You wear the blindness, then slide
in grey fog. The hypocrisy and violence will wolk
side by side.

Do not touch the leftovers. A vulgarity
of expansion! Step aside from the continuum.
I will wait for you.


Satish Verma