Poetry

I intend to move away from myself
as apologia for sadness,
Could not give up the zen,
powerless, breathless, drowning,
in my skin, my viens,
sharing the existence of undoing,
what was something.
Nobody I am, connecting to you
by flames of aristocracy of pain,
for eternal slavery.

Primitive memory hurts. Give me your tears.
The world is struck by salutation to sun
I am free to put a mask
and light the dead wood.


Satish Verma