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How Far Was My Home
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Satish Verma It does not exist now,
the conceited gait
of my fantasy.
It was not a cakewalk.
You may be coming―
for a daily ritual, but a
genuine thought suffers.
Tipping over, I will
say to me, accept the day
and become a recluse.
The violence
of the lips don't give a respite.
The glazed teeth under
the mask become red, spitting
the blood.
For whom you had
saved the moment of surrender?
The moon will move around
the planet, not to crash.
