Poetry

Don’t you agree with my ability
to loosen up on our times in no night?
A river thing was flowing
through foliaged silence.

In deranged hour of the
neck tie, you throw up obscenity
on road. What? Chicken hearted?
Sickle cell anemia?

Goat rioting before sacrifice: -
the tiny feet will dropp from heaven
to walk in blood and bless you
for dispatching the head of unlove.

The night hawk butchers the hope,
if the baby owl cries again. Afraid,
I am going to take a flight
to yellowing moon.


Satish Verma