Satish Verma
Yawning
What organicity!
Moon was coming down
on me. A visual alacrity,
accepting the surrender.
Journey to dead phrases
begins. Revivalism?
You dig out the extinct remains,
the forbidden Anemone, daughter
of Mars.
Come once, to my side,
to receive my fervor,
making me timeless.
Desires were ace runners.
Mind picks up the cobalt blue
of your eyes.
Now you go blank―
against the cult. The thumb
was set lower than the forefinger.
It will not pull the trigger.
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