O YOU

A monster from a tree
jumps and runs around the bushes
to mate.

A blank statement
is issued. The system groans
and collective pshyche fails.

A stark silence
for the food for thoughts.
I sit down to meditate-

to find the bloody answer
for white death. The dirty
work to sweep the floor.

It smells like an
amputated leg.
Do we need to draw a circle around the bomb?

With a lie on your lips,
are you going to negotiate
with violence?

Satish Verma