The Wax Palace

You were half-crazy
saving little buds
brutalized by storm
in a yawning night.

The ugly silver of a fringe
group becomes intentionally
a hate cult, developing
an epicenter for stripping

to devastate a religion. The
ghosts are walking in the
corridors of mirrored crimes.
There is a creeping sadness in the golden lock.

The blood craft brings obscene
inheritance. You hide the script of
murder in a wheel chair. Things have
not remained things. There is smoke all around.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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