Poetry

This road trip to moon will not end
through the shards of shattered,
small prints of sleep.

A ravaged nest lived behind tomorrow
in necklace of past apologies.
Hanging by fan was ending of today.

We talked of dirty nights and bright glasses
in the strange land of gobblers. The
greed was the keyward.

I was not ready to comb the promises.
Power of poverty and deprivation
has brought together the broken hearts.

Let’s kill the syllables after inferno
dousing the truth of life. Who knows
when we will meet in darkness.


Satish Verma