FROM LIDS

a facsimile of torture 
candlelit in moony dark 
i want to unread the anointed death 
on this tip of an arrow, 

here it comes 
the hissed phrase 
wrenching the gut – 
for conceptual withdrawl, 

dawn of dark secrets 
without footprints of echo 
extracting a price, 

do not stop fighting, 
smear me with blood 
hot spurts of thrills to defend the pink 

in valley of counterfeits blades, 
the green was fake, 
the red was fake, 
pure white poison

Satish Verma