Darkness At Noon
Tousling the opulence was
not modesty.
Who will adore the clan?
I am not yet ‘me’,
the refuge of elevated moon.
The heat and dust of nascent money
was burning like a loud prayer
in dark sun. Perfection tends
to terrify the stings.
A mogul of arts outlines the
script of drowning a desert storm,
when two flames went to bed.
Do not pick up the nails for
the coffin of a martyr.
They are going to make a dirty bomb.
poem by Satish Verma
Added by Poetry Lover
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