Poetry

I could not take it, the fear.
Transient flesh
vibrant in a sunken ship.

On a coral island
deconstruction of a fallen window.
Jumping on million skins.

The level of violence was rising.
Rebuttal will not convey
the truth, the reality.

A thin line of lips
skates on the ice of power.
In a palm grove

I was held by music of death.
My arms unwrapped
around the portrait of life.

White swellings on the knuckles
betray the gliding priest,
who denies the god.


Satish Verma