Poetry

Tell me how to tell you about a flat
robotic voice,
asking for euthanasia,
a rite of passage for ceremony of death.
He said, he preferred lethal injection
to noose. But it should be painless,
and there should be no leakage of pain
on face. Mercy it be.

This was not a stage show.
No mummer was performing.
Sitting in lotus position
inviting the inevitable. Be my destiny,
my end.

A terminal prayer of infant dream,
which could not find words,
worth any weakness.

Going separately on different routes,
meeting accidently at home
two things were quarreling with dark
quietly.


Satish Verma