Author Information
Coming Full Circle
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Satish Verma This was the surrealistic
nightmare.
Omitting the guilt
I will paint a nude.
It was not kind of
pink. Cosy with words―
you will polish the legend,
misspell the murder.
Transfixed I enter
the still life. You come
out with bound hands
to say goodbye.
Sometimes I feel, it is
not over. The sap of black
pine becomes red.
Needles prick me, not to move.
You fold the holy book
and put it in bag.
Kingly
This poem seems writ
As if upon the table of
Great philosopher king.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitutes