Poetry

Irreverent arsenic of lake bottom
was seeping in me
I was riding on waves, moon-stuck.

The nude shot
of anemone, blindfolded
after the criminal assault.
Why they were throwing the lewed comments?

A raw cave
of white pain, drags the deity out
and dances on hawthorns.
The butchers become sick,
sick to the bones.

O democracy, king was not wise,
wise was not king.

Satish Verma