by Satish Verma
Leave something for me to imagine.
A skeleton in a pond
leaps to the moon.
In an air bubble
lies the history of a suspended
name, wasted away on water.
A war is declared on the
family of words, not spoken
to anguish of man.
I thought of my sun
averting a disaster. The sprouts
will not come out of the earth.
An enquiry into the nature of
immanence, leads to starvation.
The body of truth turns into a snake.
The revolution within, shows
a false victory. You start again
from the ugly fingers.
Last updated December 24, 2012