Being The Untruth Poem by Satish Verma

You had dropped
the moon like a burning coal
in my courtyard to
ignite me.

A splitting image
to prove that the ontogeny
will not repeat the history.

Sun tilts to spite
the magic of rainbow
in the eyes of Ovid.

This was the moment
of love between gun and
the bleeding poems.

Perhaps the exiled
poet's error becomes a sage
to spread the incense of erotica.

The vampire opens
the wings to go for benign bites.