Poetry

Asphyxiated by curled hands.
Punishment for tainted moon,
it has floated down to
darker side of continence.

You push the body in wall,
Coal burns in the eyes.
The shadow at last, leaves the body.

The high priest, goes for the copyright
and nerves explode in the books for
annular bulge of pride.

A simile was needed for a grain of sand
by cutting your wrists
and pouring the blood on the knives.


Satish Verma