Treasure Island

Satish Verma

(5-6-1935)

FUTURE


Ugliness in pink flakes
elopes with a terrorist.
Sun bleaches the black scorn
muscles ache with cramps.

Full moon peeps through the veil
of branches. Eucalyptus sways
in majestic conception.
Time to exude honey.

A perfect discrimination against
the trees. A painful ulcer on tongue
bleeds, pure as the malignant pain.
I will not talk about existence.

The shadow of god crops up.
Foolish dolls play the game.
Subjectivity has frills to counter
the drive of madness.

Anguish becoming responsible
to deliver the particles of imagination,
which move faster than death.
Future of man was in peril.

Submitted: Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Edited: Monday, April 11, 2011
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