IN REVERSE

Just unbound, the death rate. 
Red roses had no qualms. Numbers, 
unapologetic, they die or commit suicide. 
Death had no tombs. One by one they 
cross the stream, sinking half, floating half 
in a cynic system, heedless, emaciated, 
eyes looking beyond, cavernous. 

They kiss the doors, will not comeback, 
pilgrims of grapes or hemlock, dead on the toes 
of rehearsals, dried milk in breasts and pounding 
of metaphors. The mankind stripped of songs 
drifting from one forest to another.

Satish Verma