SERENE REVENGE

Unmoored in twilight, my most visible 
hands were ready to slam on the moon 
of stains to bring out the water of life. 
A secondhand night was waiting for 
an explosion, 

which never came. How long will we go 
to find the peace in surrogate truths 
surrounded by thorns on lips? I was hanging 
a painting of a fall in happy valley of 
gender artists, 

which I never appreciated. The high heeled 
power of legs was no match to beautiful nails. 
The walk on the ramp betrayed the ancient 
footfalls reaching nowhere to nothingness on 
revolving planet. 

The masqueraders are still roaming free on 
parole to snatch a prize for extraordinary 
darkness generated by stars on the faces 
of orphans tattooed by the whips of silence, 
after all they were flung flowers. 


Satish Verma