Your Voice
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 © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment