White Lies

Satish Verma

It was a glass house. 
A burning boat capsizes 
in milk body, creating 
a schism. 

Relentlessly, a classical theme 
was furloughed. I 
refuse to sell, 
sell anything. 

A deemed thought is 
nurtured, hiring the 
tall grasses, to hide 
the kill. I am writing― 

a poem of falling leaves 
to eat the huge steps 
of a giant, who started 
the blood time.