Poetry

When you were learning
how to kill,
somebody was beheading my faith.

There was lint in my eyes
and the lathyrism
of numbers.

In raw emotions
you took away everything from me
I was left with an entire whole.

Still I will owe you
a minus zero when fight for numbers
will break out.

Who are those people,
that were sharing the divide?
How much will remain when you divide death?



Satish Verma