21 november 2021

poetry

Satish Verma
Satish Verma

Pummelled

It was a direct hit,
meeting an immaculate
moon tonight.


Was it possible― that
a star flew off the sky
to undo something?

I was the mist,
and I was the sun.
Describing the accident―
not the truth.

The molester.
Time, steps out taking a big
chunk of life.

Unhinged, a messiah
drops dead―
at the door of equity.

How vain, was the
ego of man!

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