Poetry

I am not too well, he felt.
The flames chased him in charred landscape.

Fighting over, he pondered about the
crime within, the surge to find a nest hole.

A wounded pride where the salmonella hits.
You enter a slot for more enticements.

Any patch of vague tragedy among the barren
desirability, shares the accident with sacrifice.

Unhappy, you reverse the mode of retrieving
against the terms of swimming alone.

Where was the death’s arc to capture
the mistakes of life? Was an archaism

sufficient to kill the untruth? No implant
will enhance the height of achievement.


Satish Verma