Poetry

Like I want to erase the fear
before I light a remote fire
in the blue veins.

Actually this was the crisis of self pride
in manic depression
seeking the anonymity of toes
tracing the footpath.

Becoming a paper-boat
in the winds of flesh and fancies
on the choppy sea of death.

No spinal pain for candles
to burn in courtyard
of sunken faith.

Red grapes in a tiny bowl
leap to lips of sun
for sons and daughters. Ajmer, INDIA

Satish Verma