Lost Tribe

At life closing,
were you in peace
with your slips?

The weariness brings
a curse. You start
shredding.

Like a newfound
fossil egg, you kiss
the lost poem.

A dependent
wound stops hurting.
I bring a stoned version.

The moon and the
resurrected dream,
throw long shadows on lake.

My boat goes in flames.

Satish Verma