Poetry

Like illegitimate sons 
becoming nephews. 
Stay with me I have lost 
my ink. 

An underground knife 
cuts you to wrist, 
you bleed on paper.

It was a tip of trust failure 
after a wake up call by a loner; 
the molten lava will find another 
sexual pursuit. 

There was nothing left to be
concealed, after the bonfires of veils.
The celibate tears come unbidden 
I am going to encounter the pool.

Satish Verma