DESPAIRED

nothing is left to say, 
the wandering cloud was bleeding 
for white moon, 

the elements, the purity, the ligaments 
are fake, joints are festering 
with fever on burntout resins; 

the name floats in millions of veins, 
tell me the fault line of tremors, 
a mass burial was on way, 

the surge of deadly intent 
in this night of black spiders 
in eternal pursuit of murder, unpalming 

thousand hurts, poppies kissing the eyes 
of ravaged shutters, locks broken 
and ivory taken away

Satish Verma