Get Your Premium Membership


There was a sharp rise 
of indecent things. On the
rocks you left my name
without flowers.

Make a heap of all 
the gifts of life and griefs and 
start a bonfire. No message 
is going to come.

Let us live in separate bowls 
of soup. Time had swept 
them clean for a murder.

One day the alien god will 
alight from the sins, 
to alter the numbers.

The mudslide of untruths 
will scupper your house 
made of paper and pen.

Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016

Post Comments
Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.