Mountains were coming down to
never-home,
in surreal rebuff to shaking earth;
emerging from the shadows of sky.
In groping for the legs
this was the myth of lynching.
You are drenched in the rains
of promises.
A kiss for each lethal penetration,
for global time-
you are becoming a wasteland
borne out of swollen fingertips-
who would not write any name.
The many words of pain are finding
a new meaning from the vocabulary
of conceit and betrayals.
A deliberate isolation brings
the sound sleep to ashes to become a thing.
Satish Verma
