Two Intersecting Lines

When you picked up
my pen, I wept.

Mercury rising,
the vespa gets ready
to strike.

This lifeless clay
wakes up, to bear the pain.

Do you remember,
when you bent down to―
touch the feet of a broken Buddha?

Before the ashes blew away.
you looked back
to make sure, it was a dream.

Stripped to the last color.
Van Gogh commits a sin.
He becomes alive.

This was my regime.
This was my echo.

Satish Verma