Poetry

A fragile pistillum sways to conceal
the sperms in pestle. Unilaterally fired salvos
were increasing. After the dig, bodies in the
debris were popping up daily. There
was no truce for brothers in arms. Struggling
to hold on the humanism, anger was rising
from the white paper.

A sense of lost is weaponized. There is
a mix of solemnity and hurt. Pacemaker was becoming
a slave, will not respect cadence. Obscurity
must take refuge. The golden lined clouds
were enduring the sun.A howitzer fires at moon.
It was time to find the anchor, shoving aside
the mortgage of life.


Satish Verma