White Lies Poem by Satish Verma

It was a glass house.
A burning boat capsizes
in milk body, creating
a schism.

Relentlessly, a classical theme
was furloughed. I
refuse to sell,
sell anything.

A deemed thought is
nurtured, hiring the
tall grasses, to hide
the kill. I am writing―

a poem of falling leaves
to eat the huge steps
of a giant, who started
the blood time.