Satish Verma
Landing Without Gears
In asci we stand like
spores in a floating pain
in trepidation of something
evil.
It was a lily pond.
The water brings a dead city
on lotus leaves. I will
become crazy for small deviations.
The body bags are full of
remains. You know everything
before hand, from alphabet
to full script.
In my own way I will
decipher the stream of
death’s language. A part
of your face floats nearby.
The uncollected legs were
searching the flame of sorrow
without digging a hole.
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