Striving Hard

Like inky jet,
ejected on white paper,
the cuttlefish
of a poet―

was warding off the
unseen enemy.
The dry flattened
chest, would remind you
of a chalky desert.
Only cacti grow there.

You go into a trance,
then convulsive seizures, with
a loud scream. You
invoke the toddler god
who would kill king cobra
fifteen feet long.

Satish Verma