Against Thoughts

The lake was drying up touching raw nerves. Epicenter of violence was standing on gun powder- nursing charity groups which were spewing hot lava. This war was different, wearing masks played by gloved hands. The face in the crowd was twisting the knobs of nuclear doors. A tender haze over the winter of relationship. The stones were smiling. The dance of the road, I am the lone survivor of genocide to witness the romance of death, the nameless liberation. Can you negate this matrix? This fall of becoming? I smear the ashes on forehead of history and squander my poems. SATISH VERMA