by Satish Verma
Drunk with pride
the streets are bursting
in self-indulgence.
Who was calling the shots?
Do you know the words
between intermissions, carry a secret-
till the brazen scoop
finds the hidden meaning.
It was grave
very grave truice, unmaking love
between the estranged lovers-
when clouds were seducing the moon.
You don't belong to this
crowd of renegades. Ants
will take away the
divorced dreams.
•
Fissile belly
has started showing signs
of reckoning. A gloom has settled,
gyrating in a sunken garden
for the hung corpses.
Never cruel were the times before
when blind needles were unstitching
the lips of frozen faces. I refuse
to start a prayer
till the grass covers a silent tomb.
Last night it had rained
on the private flesh. It was
full of semen. You do not
belong to this world
of pregnant pause.
Satish Verma
Last updated December 24, 2012