Poetry

The town was
fissured.
It does not listen to me
that moribund heart, now.
The biome was ready
to set on fire all the smiles.

No person of god
will lead the prayers to grave.
Let the dust meet the dust
stealthly and
you win the script surreptitiously.
Beautifully done, the obscene death.

A bruise spreads
shattering the mirrors of perfect accident.


Satish Verma