MATCHMAKERS

non compos mentis 
my monologue, 
non-believer will say, it was 
insult of salt, 
under the bark, white ants were climbing, boring into sap, 

kneeling, 
at war with yourself, 
disinheriting the loud blood, 
you want to thwart the murky ariel 
to scour the black mass 
at belly, 

the dynasty ends in obscene hugs, 
grievers want to be forgiven 
for the sake of kneading truth 
on merciless palms: 
it kills the headache, the eyes, the vistas 
of bleeding expansion

Satish Verma