For Intensive Eyes

A Poem by Satish Verma

For Intensive Eyes

There was something
between the lips.
You will not recite my name.

A muted word―
becomes a psalm at
execution. There was no
crowd to witness the grace.

If I prepare a book of
all my defeats, would you
write obituary.

The antiquities had become
alive. This was the beauty
of lunacy.

And the saint was dead
without meeting his god.