Poetry

From the blank book can I
lift some questions for the lofty hopes
when I lost myself near the home?

The fear was darting inside the white sores.
Keys were lost for the answers
and truth fell castrated.

The magic was fading from the cusps
of designs, unconceived thoughts were
seeking proportionate punishments.

Congeniality drifted from the
architect of hominid species. A nameless
storm plays havoc. Humble peaks bow

before the unmeasured meteors. You
can shut the orphanage now; no
bombs are bound for the wet crypts.


Satish Verma