NO GRAND LANDING

It clings to you, like a liquid rock, 
burns your skin. You get a chemosignal. 
Tethered on a rope your clenched iron fist 
remains dysfunctional. From the elite enclave 
red smoke billows like a jinni unleashed 
from the bottle. 

A stray mortar sends olfactory fumes. 
The land concludes a twist, becomes 
unforgiving.The debris was a cluttered, goaded 
inheritance. When it was not there I eat 
the guns. Mission accomplished of death and 
destruction, you start a prayer near an incapacitated tank. 

Today, like everyday the war failed us. 
Mother and son, father and daughter sleep in death’s embrace.

Satish Verma