Erecting Another Totem

Satish Verma

A conspiracy of the sort. 

This is what I wanted 
from you. 
Abandoned in space― 
between the eyes, you were 
supposed to lead the humble light 
for an elusive peace. 

I was lost in the 
lexicon of intrigues, the 
nest of prudence of the 
proverbial lap dance. 

Standing at the gate 
of morgue, waiting to receive 
another caravan of 
pseudo remains. 

Like a Spartan, you will 
not retreat, not bend, your feet 
near the grave― still standing erect. 

Like wasps the green words would zoom.