Poetry

A black hole detonates itself
to stigmatize the substance.
Now a silk road leads
to sight and touch.

A scarecrow starts screaming.
Sky was falling on fire. The space
becomes deviant. Chopped hands
were drawing the tattoos
of winged feet.

I return to the ashes to find
the stolen fame. Unstable angina.
The pain comes and goes. I am not
going to receive the avalanche
of burnt out thoughts.

Want to pretend my suicide
to meet the harbor waves.

Satish Verma