You were half-crazy
saving little buds
brutalized by storm
in a yawning night.
The ugly silver of a fringe
group becomes intentionally
a hate cult, developing
an epicenter for stripping
to devastate a religion. The
ghosts are walking in the
corridors of mirrored crimes.
There is a creeping sadness in the golden lock.
The blood craft brings obscene
inheritance. You hide the script of
murder in a wheel chair. Things have
not remained things. There is smoke all around.
Satish Verma
