SHIFTING PAIN

A silent wrath sits in a pool 
of blood, will start a battle 
over the footprints of sponges 
who soaked the history. 
The flow of endurance, lava on 
the tongue triggers discontent 
for a riot of spawned hunger. 
One transparent self under the rocks 
moans, falls to explosion, sways in 
dim smoke. For the authenticity of future 
we are killing the serpent 
who drinks milk 
from your hands 
and protects your treasure. 
The tranquility is little bloated 
like grape seed extract.

Satish Verma