Poetry

Under the gaze of bald beliefs
a warped dialect
becomes a squeezer.
Helplessly I watch
the slashing of my wrists.

Darkness burns, without light
only intense heat.
The expected miracle digs in
around, in trenches of my knees.
I become a walking ghost.

An immaculate landscape
with not a single blade of grass.
Only a blazing sun, threatening
to make you thingless and godless,
a proximity to aloneness.

Satish Verma