Poetry

In time warp, to find
the fell of a dark moon
my thoughts bring out a birthday gift.

The first step in fog
discovers the sharp edge
of kindness.

Who will believe
this black and white,
suicide of a sage?

Newborn roses and dahlias
speak through
the nothingness of fear.

I just saw the face of death
floating on a pond.
Ashes and bones out of the urn.


Satish Verma