What Times Poem by Satish Verma
What Times
The upbeat moon
becomes dazed, when you
start, the dance of death.
Personified, lone word,
unloved; changes the
choreography.
Given space, a sick
crowd, expands, unsquares,
for the throne.
The abysm from which
the cicadas are crawling out
to devour our being.
I do not want to
control you, your song.
I am burning in my own holocaust.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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11/3/2025 10:21:50 PM # 1.0.0
