Satish Verma
In The Intermittent Love
The eerie exodus of rage
from crashing domes,
was the collective wisdom.
A complete thought,
walked with me like a shadow.
The long journey
for truth demanded clarity.
Life had not been fair,
path of death was endless.
The body poem from the sad
and gentle portrait crossed the line,
became a sculpture.
My silver verse died.
I was courting a white washed city.
The book of sorrow levitates,
Someday I will face the artist.
Sleepwalking I start.
Waking to your name
history was unmade.
My breath went heavier,
and my steps emptier.
The metaphors did’t kiss,
my innovations.
In the intermittent love,
hate was the topic.
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