Poetry

You catch what was convenient
for age of denial. The exit.
Not being for nothing,
a better half of a belief.

Dependence was increasing
on wounds inflicted on others.

I stop at the mid of road
to turn or not to turn.
For the lost parapharases of existence.

The myth of amorality
was getting a new title. I close
a chapter of non-committance,
walk along a wheel chair.

I am not limbs, not topless.
The toes are prodding on a green vein!


Satish Verma