Written by: Satish Verma

Tousling the opulence was
not modesty.
Who will adore the clan ?

I am not yet ‘me’, 
the refuge of elevated moon.
The heat and dust of nascent money 

was burning like a loud prayer 
in dark sun. Perfection tends
to terrify the stings.

A mogul of arts outlines the 
script of drowning a desert storm,
when two flames went to bed.

Do not pick up the nails for 
the coffin of a martyr.
They are going to make a dirty bomb.

Satish Verma