AGAINST THE TIMES

Lipped-wet, 
Counterfeits. 
Fakes neither audible 
nor visible. 

The moment dies 
in our hands. 
It was a non- 
happening. 

Silence booms 
destroying the palace, 
of dreams. I should have 
become the scissors. 

This poem is not charitable 
gnawing at the underlip 
of an orphaned 
moon.

Satish Verma