Poetry

A pristine smoke was pointing
the where of pawns
abetting the glacial runaway.

Emblemic,
he was the last man on the stairs
ready to jump in the lake

when night arrives.
Now this was the tipping point
to stand erect

where the tongue was wasting away,
The death staged a drama
of a feel up of young buds

in a virgin garden.
The key breaks the lock
and darkness prevails.


Satish Verma