Poetry

The name,
went begging to yield.
Dispute was becoming a point of disorder.
A fire on ice, I was burning inside.

Unabated, the storm
was raging in bush. The candor was lost.
We were drying up in shade. One eccentric
nerve poison was spreading.

We will forego, the face
and wear masks to hide our swollen lips
and private chastity. A hairless
loathing is born.
Unless you are a condemned shadow,
the portrait will stand in a corner
for an unwritten crime, disfiguring
the moon of tomorrow.


Satish Verma