Poezja

The coming of a that
to dismantle the comb,
unstilling trees under tracer bullets
swaying in embrace
for moonmilk.

The unzipped planktons in sea
open their mouth to supermoon for a night dive
in a green passion. Does it
need a scrutiny? Why a love song
has tarnished the icy mounds?

The venom
of hissing light on a sleeping bay
has erased the aging lines of art
and face was becoming a terror.
There will be no mercy now
for survivors.

Satish Verma