Not A Banal Taste

Satish Verma

Privileged of remaining 
grey in the hands of enemy, 
I say to myself― 
why not turn dark. 

You will erase the ancient bliss. 
It had made you a goliath beetle. 

The weapons become the 
shining medals. I would fill the― 
gap of gender space. 

But, when the doors become 
shut, light tends to cling 
the floaters― moving in straight line. 

You reach for the falling 
crumbs of age. The pain opens 
the sky of withering vision.