Becoming Strangers

I was rearranging
the things, in order
as if I will come back.

Ah! Life has
lynched my poems. I
feel― I cannot write
something beautiful.

A frenzied mob
calculates your height
and starts stoning at
an erect totem.

The hardened rocks were
melting without fire
to submerge you and your
castle made of clay.

At sunset-point you
reach to stand in twilight
to morph into an alien!

Satish Verma