Poetry

I care less,
walking on plateau.
Now,
mind rejects the peaks.

A small patch of green,
I knead on ice
of firm orbs.
This sterile landscape starts a fire.

My hands knit a taciturn probe
to enter the inconceivable.

The particles sleep in metaphors
of a baked sky,
where the stars bleed every night.

The fear looms large.
I sit in the crevices of hurts
to reduce the dimensions of time.


Satish Verma