In Burial Home

Satish Verma

Not for me, 
this politics of living 
for sexless alchemy. 

You take on― 
the pen's broken nib, 
writing blood soaked birth 
of an illegitimate avatar. 

The spin was fatal. 
Unfazed a bizarre tone, 
announces a miss call. You 
are pronounced dead. 

You will swim now 
in veil. Eyes looking deep 
in water where light does not reach. 
The mission of salvaging a 
heritage fails. 

Dog winter. 
Sun hides behind the thin survivors. 
There was no will, 
no suicide pact.