my poems make me sad.
You reflect the times
my body leaves the wound marks on sand.
Again I had gone to my tattered home
to sleep under the moon.
There was only a small window.
I would look at the stars whole night –
to conceive and jump into a lake
of synthetic fathers and hired wombs.
The grieving faith now holds you responsible.
O god, in reverse order, become a man.
Submitted by Satish Verma.