FOR ANYTHING

A fake sanity with its wisdom 
enlarges the space between the coarse 
land of craft and sea of emotions 
for stress to walk with soul 
in sleep. 

A dope for the last hurt in hurricane 
at burning lake where I was collecting 
the black seeds from the fallen tree 
of love near the deck of house we built 
on waves. 

Do not corrupt the innocence of sky 
enveloping the rage of sun. The call was 
imminent from the dead leaves of autumn. 
One day the anginous waste will become 
seed vessels.

Satish Verma