Truncated Poem by Satish Verma

A midnight craft
dumps the moon
on a heap of deceits.
I ask my sap to turn back for truism.

It was a question of spacing
between the bodies
in scapegoats;
coming for slaughter.

A scale measures the depth
of defeats. The hands
were busy in mending the
walls of psychiatric ward.

Have you ever tasted a white
poison, sweet in taste?
When you grow old, you will
look like your father.

The name which was absent
in calendar, was found everywhere.