Crash-Landing Poem by Satish Verma

The space in between―
the mayhem and spiritual hour;
was not much, but a spitting image,
of swapping with sun bites― was
evident without remorse.

The ice storm was raging.
Blueberries hang from your
eyes, to bluff me. I draw the curtain
and lit the fire to bring in―
the bride of vengeance.

A charitable act, to clear
the needles from the doll: No black
magic will work now. I am clean
and pure, will not cut a
slice of breast, for the red milk.