Truncated

A midnight craft
dumps the moon
on a heap of deceits.
I ask my sap to turn back for truism.

It was a question of spacing
between the bodies
in scapegoats;
coming for slaughter.

A scale measures the depth
of defeats. The hands
were busy in mending the
walls of psychiatric ward.

Have you ever tasted a white
poison, sweet in taste?
When you grow old, you will
look like your father.

The name which was absent
in calendar, was found everywhere.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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