Poetry

a facsimile of torture
candlelit in moony dark
i want to unread the anointed death
on this tip of an arrow,

here it comes
the hissed phrase
wrenching the gut –
for conceptual withdrawl,

dawn of dark secrets
without footprints of echo
extracting a price,

do not stop fighting,
smear me with blood
hot spurts of thrills to defend the pink

in valley of counterfeits blades,
the green was fake,
the red was fake,
pure white poison


Satish Verma