The Target Poem by Satish Verma
The Target
In a love triangle,
I move out of the center
to find a boat.
Locked in a sperm
a messanger becomes a brute.
Who will draw the circle
on the mercy petition?
This was a curse on the bed
which will not go to sleep for a whore.
The stings. Everytime you
open the mouth, you spurt
out the barbs, I walk into fire.
The kill. It was a perfect
landing. Wounds will never
heal. The beach remains dry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/16/2024 9:53:23 PM # 1.0.0.1119
