Poetry

In the empty house
of snow,
though, interred a blade of grass
when I was searching one
midnight flame

in frozen night, on
parting lips of darkness.
The art of delusion
churns the sea for an untitled
arsenic, of a blue throat.

I am dynasty and I am
the king of million whites.
Fatherless sins
in rusted boots
were having a last laugh.


Satish Verma