Watching Our Warts

Sloping down in gold pursuit
of a bruised city,
sons of nameless fathers
were changing the generic mandate.

I am becoming fluvial
going on a muted odyssey
to find unmarked graves.

Slaughtering
your own lines, in praise of end-
which came very soon;
before the windows altered the moon.

Genes spilled on the road
recalling the wounded
son whose lexicon took him
to war with the meanings.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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