Poetry

It was a clouded heart.
I was fidgeting with fate and
there was no otherway, no way.
I did not want to keep him waiting either, but
I must be ready to receive the guest.


Thief of pain was coming in the blizzard
for a murky deal. I refuse to fall apart.
The epitaph was incomplete and Emperor
was demanding his due of golden sleep. Was it
the worth of a new born. Sky was overcast.


Taking the thought to its fossil home. Stings were
sharp and the next stop was ocean. Water
of funeral way. Still the sweet lips would
haunt for the honey. Gone, the wax palace
was gone, no body was going to light it.


Satish Verma