Poetry

Imperishable,
you keep the truth frozen
like the marrow, in the limbs of life,
producing blood cells
when sun rises.

Knocking again
at a rapist door
to leak the secrets of a hidden bed
of polity.

Contours of a dimmed
tunnel.

The times; Oh, the tongues
were tasting the peels of aorta.


Satish Verma