Poetry

After a grand design 
there was a white leap
to find a boat in darkness. 

Time was dusting the frame 
of memory, and the age 
will grieve for the lost vision. 

The pace of assaults will 
increase over the burning windows. 
This was my priviledge. 

The tongue tastes a superbug. 
Some celestial entity, guideless 
but ready to rub on the flame. 


Here lies the moon of beaten stars.
Nothing was terrible 
in greasing the naked groom.

Satish Verma