Satish Verma Writing

In searing heat, on the fern path―

You loosen the grip and let go the bank.

It was a marathon race of timeline. The days are bound and shot.

Wanting to die young hairy and unbaked,

Night falls in rings. The poetry becomes

The traveler sleeps in a sepulcher, endlessly, timelessly,

A sudden shock, when a snakeskin starts moving.

To connect with a reclusive mind, was an uphill task.

The great lines, you quote, don't stir me... you know my vexation,

As I accept the verdict, the dead-soul beast―

180

Advertise Here
Want to advertise here? Get started for as little as $5

Compartment 114
Compartment 114