Poetry

It was a beautiful day
after the storm.
Fever was rising in branches.
Severed moons on road
started listening to explosive-laden
snow.


I went for the jugular.
Why poisoned goats were set free
for the cougars?
Existence was a positive sum,
not the square root of negative numbers.
One poppy head went for the primary.


A hybrid of reality and dreams
I was trying to find my ancestral home
in the epics of wars.
When a day ends, I open the fires
for the night. Time has come
to become blind.


Satish Verma