In Making

Spurred the kerosene
to burn the logistics.
I had moved on untrodden snow
of tanned gifts.

There was no tomorrow for me,
living from moment to moment.
The warships
had moved into positions.

Adoring the monotheisn, I still
loved many angels, you were
making many moons for me.
Breathless I was running after gold rings.

Terrible, the bell breaks my ankle
and the anklets emit the trembling
moons. Let us go out on the lake
I have many scores to settle.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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