satishverma

THE END

Lines on forehead are deepening. 
No signs of abatement 
of fire in our bellies. 

The hunger we inherited 
is only comforting 
the mouthless. 

Broken laughs. 
Strange bedfellows 
chopping off the murals from the lips. 

A body rots, 
stinks. 
Maggots fly. 

Negotiations are still on. 
Who will dissect the legend 
to find the cause of death? 

Like a clay model, a soldier breaks.

Satish Verma

Comments1

  • baj-a

    your poetry always has a deep impact. always profound. that last line is really strong!



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