How Far Was My Home Poem by Satish Verma

It does not exist now,
the conceited gait
of my fantasy.

It was not a cakewalk.
You may be coming―
for a daily ritual, but a
genuine thought suffers.

Tipping over, I will
say to me, accept the day
and become a recluse.

The violence
of the lips don't give a respite.
The glazed teeth under
the mask become red, spitting
the blood.

For whom you had
saved the moment of surrender?
The moon will move around
the planet, not to crash.