Poetry

Not moving, the words
had gone into inertia. The space was shrinking.
Only restlessness was there in buoyancy
ready to distort the sound of depth.


I am expanding in propriety,
in meaning.
Pure burning on flame of truth,
like a moth.

Listen to the guilt,
the denial to the stasis of soul.
The loneliness brings the touch
of unlimited falls.


Satish Verma