You Had The Answer

Do I ask a question,
sometimes red―
sometimes blue?

My pain of centuries
was not interpretive. There
were no tears left
in the eyes.

Something gets in my
poem. I go white, as
the blank page of a book.

Like a big fish
claiming its territory
on small limbless cold animal.

The pure adoration
makes you numb. How can
you handle a falling moon?

The lavender was
melting into effeminacy.

Satish Verma