AGAINST THOUGHTS

The lake was drying up 
touching raw nerves. 
Epicenter of violence was standing 
on gun powder- 

nursing charity groups 
which were spewing hot lava. 
This war was different, wearing masks 
played by gloved hands. 

The face in the crowd 
was twisting the knobs of nuclear doors. 
A tender haze over the winter 
of relationship. The stones were smiling. 

The dance of the road, I am the lone 
survivor of genocide to witness 
the romance of death, the nameless 
liberation. 

Can you negate this matrix? This fall 
of becoming? I smear the ashes 
on forehead of history and squander 
my poems.

Satish Verma