Under The Smoke Poem by Satish Verma

Sometimes I keep mum.
Not to show my grief.
The blank stares will tell
the color of death veil.

Let me explain the evolution
of the hidden insanity.
Every person at one time goes
crazy. About the metaphors
and stings.

The vicissitude of the moods
is apparent between the rose
and thorns. There was always a bleed.
It sucks, if you don't write
a verse.

As simple as it is. You
stop thinking. Will not hate
the blue skin, the blue blood―
blue eyes. Over the time
everything becomes white.