Poetry

The show is on.
Sedition will play with death now.
Deceitful black knives, white gloves.
No hope, battle lines are drawn.
The wasps are whirring at a furious speed
stings ready to inject venom.

Bronzed body,
huge turbaned skull.
Eyes looking beyond you,
hauls you through slumber
of ages. The autopsy extracts out a bullet
fired at close range, poured into chest.
Death had a party.

Frilled guns,
yellow metal
are ready to kill.
Extended pain of centuries haunts the future.
Give me the tearful farewell
for another ruined journey.
We will bury the present, forget the past.


Satish Verma