How Far Was My Home

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.

Satish Verma