Poetry

Moon stepped gingerly on clouds.
Apples were painless.
Yes, centrifugal goes the truth
on a ploy, unveiling the sky.
Pain of the dreaded times,
was visible through the invisible.
Tremors in the mountain range were
palpable passing through the spine of faithful.

I am not. But I am non-beliver
in me. A real transcript of a restless
syndrome. The oranges fly in all directions
to gallows for humor.

A false poem. Sexless. The uranium was
getting rich. Bang, the hypocrisy again
rules amdist the shaved heads. Exactly
the truth lives far away.


Satish Verma