Arrogance
Sometimes it pours like hot
drips of melted wax from a candlestick;
your migraine.
I wanted armistice.
Untangle the lies,
I am not in your firing line.
The tulips in the barrel of your gun
cannot forgive the bullets.
There will be no ceremony after the funeral.
Give a slice of blue departure
of moon to light the beach,
there was a brutal murder on the lake
among the muffled waves of protest
in the home of insanes, who were
praying for the sun to return.
SATISH VERMA
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2011
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