The eerie exodus of rage
from crashing domes,
was the collective wisdom.
A complete thought,
walked with me like a shadow.
The long journey
for truth demanded clarity.
Life had not been fair,
path of death was endless.
The body poem from the sad
and gentle portrait crossed the line,
became a sculpture.
My silver verse died.
I was courting a white washed city.
The book of sorrow levitates,
Someday I will face the artist.
Sleepwalking I start.
Waking to your name
history was unmade.
My breath went heavier,
and my steps emptier.
The metaphors did’t kiss,
my innovations.
In the intermittent love,
hate was the topic.
Satish Verma
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