Poezja

prisoner of retribution,
he was buried under a salt lake,

elusive, his crotch,
not far from stings of wasps,

the blood spills,
he would wonder how to catch the truth

in black river,
wrapped in imperforated causes,

leaking with curses,
black conjugation of greeds,

with the grief unbuckling the grudges,
uncut wounds, festering under the skin,

the stink starts scything, he starts
folding the denials, in self praise


Satish Verma