Poetry

Give me not your style today:
the visceral truth, liberated
from painkillers.

Spying singles out the flesh
after the resentment of torture
to do more wrong;

going away in yesterday
puts the life in apocalyptic shade,
the orange condoles for dark

when I lie still on flames
of sandalwood, setting the sun
bleed in blue eyes

of lonely sea. I am again
sleepwalking on salt lake ready
to draw the boundary of reasons,

the second-hand stitch for the eternal wound.


Satish Verma