Washed-Out

Slashing the surged monarchy 
of celibates 
stoking the fire of wounds, 

the turret locks on to a target 
taking off the gloves. 
The mountain was rising. 

A sheet of the floating ice 
disturbs the ecology 
of heart. I place my candle in storm. 

The missils had failed. 
Only the words were flying from 
bare lips for entreaties. 

Oversexed like a shoe-flower 
O, mad enemy 
I am pouring out the red sea.

Satish Verma