Sun’s Inheritance

This was a raw thing.
A paranoid template for AK-47 rifles. The
homemade bombs were planted on the roadside.
A very explosive blend of a fedayeen. You
cannot take it anymore this jihad. In everyday
life inside comes out in the graveyard. It drizzles,
the fake beliefs.

A bleak panaroma. Pansexual desire. Black
boulders, reddish cheeks,
moon falling on so many of stars!
I want a burntout sun.

Satish Verma

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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