Poetry

Sometimes I will meet myself
in an unlikely spot
to tie the loose ends of fugitive life.
Run, run I used to tell
my blisters,
you are caught in a bushfire.

I will say, take hold of the moon
and start wiping the stains.
The antelopes, the trees, the rocks
will keep your footmarks alive.

What a crazy idea, I will think
to pretend to be happy.
Gods are sleeping,
vault is broken
and priest has become a thief.

A jab in my back, I am bleeding.
Why not a meaningless word,
a painless wound
would play like dolphins
in my tranquil sea?

Satish Verma