Fingerprints

There was no final
truth in half-lies. When
you were hunting moon,
I was talking to myself in trance.

You were different,
but obstinate, I survived
your savagery.

Like a castaway after
fighting with my gods, I am
preparing my own tomb.

Holy wars were a great fun.
With changing tribes
and casts, you couldn't spell a mantra.

A lip-lock with death, was
blackening the tongue of sun
you will not stand on beach.

No virtue left in featherless flight.

Satish Verma