Theme: Life


A little death comes every day 
for the lost age. 
The fingertips write your name on 
ice, to burn in sun
and still, I will say it was good. 

Searing poverty of words 
scrambles for a suicide vest. 
No meaningless truth can save 
the kleptomaniac. After the demise 
of a sentence I can say, would 

not go for an award. The struggle 
to live in some pretentious 
sexuality of the curves was over. 
A trident will find 
the torso of revengeful god. 

Appearance was deceptive 
in entire race. The father of waves 
takes a bird's-eye view 
of the verses flowing from the 
icy lips of peaks.


More By  :  Satish Verma

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