05 November, 2017

Unwedded

In final journey, there
was a collective guilt.
To find an opus, I reach out
for a carbon pit.

It was not your grief
not my miracle. Collecting the
cadavers to sleep with―
for warmth.

Ashes, you poke at the
art. Except self-elevation
and grandiosity, what to discover
in the heap of refuse?

You start nibbling at your
clothes. The scream melts at
the stitchs. Style wavers,
you become naked.

Satish Verma

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