Poetry

Before the spill there was
soaring. And then anti-g.
I readied myself
for the ultimate fall.

This was the poetry of submission
sharing the pain of disillusionment.
Who was pretending of liberation
in a see-through heart?

This was the time when
you run amok
under pheromones of dead clones:
the drowned dreams.

Pelting stones at moon
we were made for each other.


Satish Verma