Theme: Life

The Brutal Life

The unspoken words 
had the unborn quality. 
That homeliness sitting around the fire pits 
writhed in predatory hopelessness. 
Insensitive to flesh 
we were shooting the ducks in midair. 

Rapture for the dirt, 
deceit does not need a consonant, 
the intensity confronts the meaning. 

The impermanence of joy 
restores the crypt; 
the body was still to be brought. 

On the winds 
a crumpled name floats 
recalling the orgies.


More By  :  Satish Verma

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