Poetry

The bald mannequin, stands
undraped, without genitalia
moving the lips.

The choreographer walks in
caressing the knobs
to open the invisible door.

There would be knife between the teeth
and dance in the flames
to lift up the veil,

to kill the sorrow and pain.
A spill from the eyes becomes
red. The whispers

will decide the prices.
Glass case will never be empty.
Sweet show will continue.


Satish Verma