The Grand Finale

Satish Verma

Your night eats the― 
umbel of light with curved lips. 
What was the ethics― 
of this getty image? 

Your responses are weak. You 
walk in, on unsteady path. 
Will not lift the rock from the chest 
unlike Sisyphus. 

You roll down on lilacs 
gnawing at my pain― nibbling 
away at my poem. There 
is no gender, there was no god. 

The spilled milk of moon 
now washes the face of night. 
I become you in the embrace 
of unlimited death.