Poetry

would give anything to die
in you, in your belly,
innocently. My voice of dissent
should hold the wings atop the kisses.

The wards in between fall on
choked Eustachian. A global grief
encircles the fallen gods, prophets
of sins.

My other self silently awakens me,
this very night as I swallow my pride
and walk through the corridors of childhood
to learn again the alphabet of death.

The shadows are lengthening.
One by one the friends have departed.
The hour of loneliness was stretching.
So it be!


Satish Verma