Poetry

You are dying inside me,
my little god.
I am awakening after a long pause.

The forked hazel wand
does not bend back, perched on a buried treasure.
I am disembarking from divining.

I stayed without body, nervous;
like aspen leaves trembling at slight doubt,
hearing footfalls of dew drop.

Fear of old fear arrives again,
when the seeds begin to explode
in the womb of a fallen tree.

For the spoken word, sting in the tail
becomes star-struck. Death zone enlarges on black
pyramid. Conscience is on its descent.


Satish Verma