Cult of Lynching by Satish Verma

Mountains were coming down to 
never-home, 
in surreal rebuff to shaking earth; 
emerging from the shadows of sky. 

In groping for the legs 
this was the myth of lynching. 
You are drenched in the rains 
of promises. 

A kiss for each lethal penetration, 
for global time- 
you are becoming a wasteland 
borne out of swollen fingertips- 

who would not write any name. 
The many words of pain are finding 
a new meaning from the vocabulary 
of conceit and betrayals. 

A deliberate isolation brings 
the sound sleep to ashes to become a thing.

Satish Verma