Satish Verma
Sad Protégé
I don't recognize
you, after giving
a pause to poem.
It was an eerie
accident. I don't own
my body, and you don't
own your tears.
With solemnity, I
place my book, on the road
going nowhere. To be
read by the sun.
You buy the words
I sell the silence.
The hyphens wail.
Cost rises.
https://truml.com