What Are Future Games? Poem by Satish Verma

Make me wild―
weirdly ethereal. An abstract
pain will unite us―
after the scarring.

It was difficult the body
count, lamenting
for the limbless faith. What
would you do with the
tinned sardines now?

The wasting must stop.
We are not able to catch the―
spring. Cold war was settling
in space. Where were new worlds beyond the stars?

I am still trying to―
write only three words verse.
Man was shrinking
and so was tall god. The
mooned eyes were closing.