FOETICIDE

Ends did not meet, like beginnings, 
fact was insulted by fiction: 
the newborn stuns the God. 
Drop by drop 
life drips from ankles. 

Desolation takes advantage, 
forgets the path, becomes self-centered. 
Dialect changes, to taste the foul 
heritage, 
cadaver breaks the glass jar. 

Foeticide of a flute, overnight 
the soft face becomes dark. Orange moon 
floats like an empty boat. 
Waves burn 
for the sake of swollen lids of time. 

The essence of lies weaves a theme 
a skull rolls down on a slide 
laughing like sin of omissions. 
Night screams. 
A hot sun glows from the window.

Satish Verma