New Year's Mirror

In the empty house 
of snow, 
though, interred a blade of grass 
when I was searching one 
midnight flame 

in frozen night, on 
parting lips of darkness. 
The art of delusion 
churns the sea for an untitled 
arsenic, of a blue throat. 

I am dynasty and I am 
the king of million whites. 
Fatherless sins 
in rusted boots 
were having a last laugh.

Satish Verma