FEVER RETURNS

Death wil wash
the feet of truth.
Grass, where the blood spilled
has gone for sale.

A pink eye stalks
the night in dark
humility. You know
moon was rising.

A melting pot rips
apart the ghost.
Besottled I celebrate
the arrival of flames.

Thirsty, you throw the
ice cubes on the ramp.
Butterflies are going to
visit the altar.

Satish Verma