God It Kills

Satish Verma

Get to take call,
I will follow myself― and
open the old wound.

Of conscience.
The veins of leaves will knit
the face of a brute.

Ready to violate
November. The dilemma in
waves of lake rises.

How to pick cotton
flowers to celebrate snowfall.
We have reached moon.

Is that you, I
ask my poem, can you maintain
the purity of dawn?