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Roots
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Satish Verma It was a beautiful day
after the storm.
Fever was rising in branches.
Severed moons on road
started listening to explosive-laden
snow.
I went for the jugular.
Why poisoned goats were set free
for the cougars?
Existence was a positive sum,
not the square root of negative numbers.
One poppy head went for the primary.
A hybrid of reality and dreams
I was trying to find my ancestral home
in the epics of wars.
When a day ends, I open the fires
for the night. Time has come
to become blind.
