Satish Verma (5-6-1935)
A severed head sits upright on mud floor
coruscating in moonlight. It was a meditating
Buddha with eyes downcast after a perfect death.
With indecent exposure there was no artifact
to celebrate. The steel was rusted and the name
erased from the asylum.
You walk like a stranger in your home,
possessed, in merciless purity. The greatness
of unbeliever touches a giant guilt.
Comments about this poem (NO TELLING by Satish Verma )
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