Poetry

Otherworldly, tactile retraction
of rainbows,
from the eyes of believers.

Detachment of restless mind
at twilight, pot starts
boiling.

Sundowning, a paranoia
takes over, you suffer a childhood
near the pyre.

Thing is not a thing
exclusive of an extremist,
something burns inside me also.

The age of a tulip
moves backward; I, untethered,
float thoughtless in speech.



Satish Verma