non compos mentis
my monologue,
non-believer will say, it was
insult of salt,
under the bark, white ants were climbing, boring into sap,
kneeling,
at war with yourself,
disinheriting the loud blood,
you want to thwart the murky ariel
to scour the black mass
at belly,
the dynasty ends in obscene hugs,
grievers want to be forgiven
for the sake of kneading truth
on merciless palms:
it kills the headache, the eyes, the vistas
of bleeding expansion
SATISH VERMA
Tolled the bell, lichen scarred and
green ingrained the brass
clanging out of key and jarred
when severance came to pass.
Rocked the pulse, neurosis slowed and
pounded sly and weak,
untruthful psalms died on the road
disinheriting the meek.
Fired the treason signal flare and
cobalt turned to grey,
to earth it fell without a care,
it burned out far away.
Picking up the pieces and
a blue dismembered child,
the anger soured the thesis
of an innocence defiled.
Tolled the bell, cracked with doom and
discord shook the scene;
ethnic cleansing drove the broom
and swept the graveyard clean.
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