Burnt-out myths in the old city
are stitching the lips of people.
Pink walls smell like blood.
Priest is dumb, hoisting the headless
deity on throne. Marigolds
are soaked in flowing tears.
Innocent wheels riding against blast,
stand still to measure
the half-life of seizures.
Cult was spreading in place,
fingers and cells Dynasties inheriting
the bleached fathers.
The ages rot under the sculptors.
We walk on water, wordless, sightless
for the thin hope.
Satish Verma
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: April 4th, 2013 21:49
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 39
Offline)
Comments2
you have created such vivid and powerful images with each verse. while your poems remind us of the harsh realities of life and war and death they are always so beautifully sculpted you make them easy to read.
here is a power in your poetry that is in no other . You create, you do not merely write. You devastate yet please the eye and the mind....this poem you have created a world unto its own.
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