Maturity

A Poem by Satish Verma

Maturity

Black tree
feeds the blood root.
There will be no sonic
connectivity.

How could I love
you so, at moonrise?
Shall I say the watercolor
has been washed?

It was not the culture
and style of time. The
renaissance wants to extract
the rare price.

Crisp nouns would
take revenge on the
unuttered words. The sacred
ism was no more valid.

Let the clouds cover
the bleeding sky.