Poetry

This road will not take you to a theme.
In wind,
a pebble was making different strokes.
Hanging stones were hiding
the music of poppies.

To fill in my glass of silver
I place the stitches in images
of naked wounds, slapping the
pink roses on lips, the shadow
of terrible interior crawling out in tears.


The incredible space between hollyhocks
bends down to pick up dead silk
of fallen monarches. The colors will
find the other side of moon
in dark, except infinity.


Satish Verma