The Décor

Sexist barbs against
wooden breasts, street-smart.
I am something not, I am. A wall
of tears. Liquid nicotine, I will not declare
myself, creating a poem in different ways.

Waywarding, protégé digs the gullies―
becoming unfaithful to himself. The
hope, will it be extinguished? The
tall mud slide, a devastating statement
burying you, me, everyone.

A black beetle, collecting carcasses,
to feed the young. It is on the rise,
green sea. I cannot see myself bleed,
by the grasshoppers. It is like
committing suicide solo.

Satish Verma