Tarantula Poem by Satish Verma

Do you need a sanitizer for contaminated hands?
They were busy in illustrating the ugly contours
of life.
Up and down you were out of joint,
and your feet were not fastened to the ground.

Untainted a shrill voice prepares to rise
from the sullen men
huddled on the floor,
for the sad demise of a grand master.
The green truth was nowhere to be seen.

People are getting down for a feast
to invoke peace for the departed soul.

I am miserable,
cannot blast the fake ceremony.
Year after year the doomed city performs a ritual
for the coronation of a new king.

The sky is divided by domes, towers, minarets
and tall turrets.
cannot see the moon clearly at night

I reject the old abstractions
draw the ink from the blood
and paint a tarantula.