Satish Verma

Sometimes it pours like hot 
drips of melted wax from a candlestick; 
your migraine. 

I wanted armistice. 
Untangle the lies, 
I am not in your firing line. 

The tulips in the barrel of your gun 
cannot forgive the bullets. 
There will be no ceremony after the funeral. 

Give a slice of blue departure 
of moon to light the beach, 
there was a brutal murder on the lake 

among the muffled waves of protest 
in the home of insanes, who were 
praying for the sun to return.