Poetry

A name breaks on the tip
of a pen.
Like a wildflower after a
violet end.

The yellow stripes will
enter the past,
retracing the path
of failures.

I pick up a broken thread
to weave a shade of blue flag
to open under the weight
of a guilt.

A cluster of doorknobs.
I retrieve my future
to lock the death
in erotica.


Satish Verma