Poetry

It was a wake up call
invoked
in the beginning of serene numbness.

Under the veiled threat of
a moon
celebrating the kill. A path in croci;

waiting becomes a torture for a
saffron sundown,
mercury was rising on snowy peaks.

Let’s toe a shikara in the lake
to catch a reflection
of the audible silence of a frozen shoulder

A pause in psychotic burst of
unshattered false teeth
of time in full habit.


Satish Verma