Satish Verma
The Blooming Blood
Sky-clad, you are going
to meet the nemesis,
digging the street to―
find the nails. Do not fret.
Nails had burrowed deep in the
flesh of unknown. When you have
nothing to say, what are you
going to say?
My heart misses a beat. Takes
a pause to look at the
spring of songless birds. I watch
myself ruined amid the legless run.
Soon they will be coming to wash
the stones with tears.
Do you smell the pungent smoke
rising from the no name tragedy.
Tonight the gas will not burn
in the kitchen. The beds will
remain unslept.
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