PAUSED

Exfoliated, I come to you,
to scratch the blighted
palace of the body, where
a god lived once.

Dervish, when did you stop
whirling? The tomb is gone,
the shroud tattered. I am
collecting the withered roses.

It rips open, the black fruit
showing the bleeding stone.
How did I believe, the tiniest
particle will create the universe.

The tree was felled scattering
the seeds. An unsure hand,
pulls on the leash and sets
the entrapped animal free.

Satish Verma