Poetry

A fake sanity with its wisdom
enlarges the space between the coarse
land of craft and sea of emotions
for stress to walk with soul
in sleep.

A dope for the last hurt in hurricane
at burning lake where I was collecting
the black seeds from the fallen tree
of love near the deck of house we built
on waves.

Do not corrupt the innocence of sky
enveloping the rage of sun. The call was
imminent from the dead leaves of autumn.
One day the anginous waste will become
seed vessels.


Satish Verma