Satish Verma

Celebrating the summer. 
Planting a wet kiss on― 
the hiding moon. 
Dousing the flames, 
you come in crosshairs 
of a mob. 
You will light 
your own candle now, in― 
pitch-dark inside. 
Impoverished. Always 
poor to buy your happiness. 
Like Paleolithic stab, you stay 
unmoved, exposed to shadows and sun. 
The water affair was kept 
alive with bloody curves. No 
one believes in old bones. 
I will not ask you. 
I will not need.