Satish Verma

Hunger comes back like a dagger 
on face. With iris and fingerprints. 
Live, fluttering butterflies, stuck 
on lampshades. Wrecked, frozen, the ending 
of seeming. Men in cages. 

They were diluting the culture. 
Chlorophyll siphoned off. No color, 
no sprouts. The roads were dirty 
with the ultimate truth, quarreling with the 
water, insanity and vertebrae. 

The creamy stuff, shouts and pants, 
shunting the definitions. People come 
and go from the paintings. There is no age bar. 
Spring will be released from the impulses 
of flesh in naked zones. 

Ideas become pacemaker, for the ailing 
heart of polity.