Poetry

Perfect bridges for a fading light
taking you to dark caves
like fireclay in fake sorrows.

The superstition of a race pool
and unearthing the sacred temple
under a mount of lies.

In vitro a baby god sleeps
waiting for a butcher knife
impaling the hymn on thorns.

A silver lining for a black moon
who refused to walk away.
The stars were frightened and bewildered.

A corporal punishment was waiting
for the sun who neglected
his duty during sundown.


Satish Verma