Poetry

Hollyhocks will not let me go;
hold my hands.
Shying away
they were turning to ashes.

In the night, wisteria
emanates a hungry cry.
Though wind had announced
sun has not kept the promise.

I gasp for the body silver
like ancient lust,
pure and paranoid –
asking for the head of a spider.

This non-violent resistance
seeks more space to pasteurize
the beautiful milk in gold containers.
A passion flower was going to melt.


Satish Verma