Poetry

A cult of sound without lips
was growing. The veil had staked its claim.
Staying myself I thought I will become
you; there would be a lured kill!

Moaning inside, a wave has ruffled
the sea. Serpent of moon quakes the shore.
Death was worthy of a kiss. A gull
flies away with glassy wings.

Rediscovering a beehive, honey of the
immaculate queen, between the breasts lies
a rival, I do not drag out the rainbow, I
have lost the will to trap the blue-fish.

We are distancing. A saddest tree drops
the seed in abyss, blackened, somebody
buries it inside a wall. The stones have
no option, up to neck the opacity runs.



Satish Verma