Poetry

Your truth always happened at wrong time
You were guilty of telling lies to death.
Swimming all over the life’s ports,
jumping up and down in a stinky swamp,
one day you were caught behind the epigram
encysted in perversity.

Let us talk about the frosty relations
breaking the norms.
Who is afraid of impromptu love?
We do not want to speak about the wasted
years thrown on garbage.
Every book was tossed out of the window,
mind became hollow.

We lit the candles with tears,
the mist enveloped us in intimacy.
Some of the days burned like dry wood
and some days grave-diggers arrived.


Satish Verma