Poetry

you were stealing me from myself
my mitochondria, a little under the name,
while I was unmoored, talking to a mirror
who did not recognize me, caked in heat and dust
touching my tissues and blood
under the ignited roof of the tower,

walking with crutches to wipe the tears,
religion, open pyres, I am still stained
near a lantana thicket, amorous, talking
to death, pirates grabbing the winds,
migration of a whole waxed population
in black air

stalkers have a corrugated mind and
serial killers a mournful voice


Satish Verma