Satish Verma
Mauled Self
Timeless I dream about
a sleepwaking into death,
inside me. Lifting in sound
and the wet silence.
The boisterous stream of years rolls down
like the debris of earthquake
from the hill. Life casts out
the pretentions,
throws the tears at my gate.
That was not me,
the smoke from the footprints
the failed virtue.
Black sweat of my arms started,
the disposition of blind truth.
The enquiry provoked
a further dialogue between time
and sun tanned cancer of a city.
The death of a whistle blower.
In the stillness of mind,
I enter to meet the mauled self.
In the wordless flesh a drama unfolds.
The tongue fixes
the blame of a desireless god
sees only a shining darkness
of a suspended faith.
And a mad fadeout, amputates
the linear thoughts.
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