Darkness At Noon Poem by Satish Verma

Tousling the opulence was
not modesty.
Who will adore the clan?

I am not yet ‘me’,
the refuge of elevated moon.
The heat and dust of nascent money

was burning like a loud prayer
in dark sun. Perfection tends
to terrify the stings.

A mogul of arts outlines the
script of drowning a desert storm,
when two flames went to bed.

Do not pick up the nails for
the coffin of a martyr.
They are going to make a dirty bomb.