WAITING

Under the gaze of bald beliefs 
a warped dialect 
becomes a squeezer. 
Helplessly I watch 
the slashing of my wrists. 

Darkness burns, without light 
only intense heat. 
The expected miracle digs in 
around, in trenches of my knees. 
I become a walking ghost. 

An immaculate landscape 
with not a single blade of grass. 
Only a blazing sun, threatening 
to make you thingless and godless, 
a proximity to aloneness.

Satish Verma