There Was No Subject

After an aggressive
kiss of life, a very restless
soul, trapped in the stale body,
wants to escape.

In dead of night, it
rains inside the eyes, on paper
and in poems.

You trip when a
decapitated head of the
past wants to bite.

Not an anomaly, you
were wished in the wet prayers
of a kneeling goddess.

We do not reach
the question marks, and
answers are in our hands.

Do we see the silver
in dark clouds?
Who knows the unwritten?

Satish Verma