Poetry

Sadness was invading my wounds. Again
I will dip my fingers in bleeding heart
to write a new poem.

A scythe cuts a cloud
that it was not. I reel under
the unexpected rain of wards.

You go up on top ladder
to jump in the hot cauldron,
no pain to drown in bones.

What was the meaning of living
with death daily and still smiling?
A candle makes a hole in your palm!

The brain has an infidel tumor;
if fails to grow and erase you.
You are absent to your being.



Satish Verma