Poetry

What was the ethics of homefires
when homeostasis had gone awry?
There were no concrete truths.
I will not wear the lies instead
like fly ash on my bloodied shirt.

The old habits die hard;
the beds of flesh and bones, carry the
strange innocent meanings of heavy
eyelids which could not beat the silk
of green eyes of a sun.

A miracle was needed to undo the
thighs of mermaid who went to sleep on the
rocks of jealousy. The sky-blue flames
rise again from the navel of infidel love
who had inherited the golden moon.



Satish Verma