Poetry

A sage plant scrambles for the
mob, walking out of bed
and begs for a death.

The adolescence had become
graphic. Do you agree with the
splurge of moonlight under the street light?

The unborn stink was hovering
after the shipwreck. The seagulls
were bewildered.

There was only one slogan
for the black booth.
Priest was sitting cross-legged in a liplock.


Satish Verma