Satish Verma

The cult moves in 
circle. Stargazing 
starts. You lie buried in 
wet retreat. Eyes protruding 

The veil sends a sweet death. 

The death. Only you would 
know, what was the conversation 
between the repentant 
and priest. 

Superfluous. To beautify 
the grimace. The lips― 
always cheat. 

A black cloud devours the moon.