Satish Verma

You come home, 
to a genocide of sperms. 
A storm was brewing 
to implode; 
cloning a wooly origami. 

What was the philosophy 
of living indefinitely? 
Silence was the biggest 
noise of spoons. 

You were not entitled 
to inherit the state, 
kissing the trophy of a 
beggared man. 

Detachment with 
upholstery might work. 
Take a candle and 
read the name on the 
black wall.