Poetry

The path was becoming pathless
after seeking the deluge.
Gunslingers were climbing on trees
to shoot the white doves.

There were ice needles in my eyes
to check the inheritance of height.
Desires move with a feline grace, lynx-eyed.
You taste me like a lamb.

I am unfolding,
layer by layer;
year by year. From end to beginning.
The benign tumors are going to attack

my afterlife.Falling, falling
my bliss in midnight of words,
across the solace of killer gaze,
on a stretch of ancient footprints.


Satish Verma