A SICK UNCERTAINTY

Rhetoric had a theme 
like crab-grass to destroy the lawn. 
Fly ash had submerged the legacy of sane lips. 
The river drifts between the broken walls 
of binge soaring. Tension was descending 
in the lanterns who were flickering hopelessly. 
Was there any need of autopsy of dark secrets? 

The terror burns the bed. You don’t get a wink 
of sleep. Between bubble and sky, wrapped up 
afterlife aches. You wear the blindness, then slide 
in grey fog. The hypocrisy and violence will wolk 
side by side. 

Do not touch the leftovers. A vulgarity 
of expansion! Step aside from the continuum. 
I will wait for you.

Satish Verma