Poetry

Moon-scented I walk in dark
to put me back in place,
unwithered,
opening the inner casket for a glow.

Pleading not guilty
after killings in bed, of affectionate
kill of lies, a black widow
romps around with a flag of morality.

Was it a systemic swallowing
of a bait put up by a shipwreck?
The bodies were flowing in a row
in caldron of acrimony.


Satish Verma