Poetry

The seizure,
volatile it was,
the way to tell, for the things
he did not want to say.

You suffer silently.
Coming to boiling point,
for the starkness of the torture.
The abridged wholeness was empty.
Only howling remained.

Can you measure the pain?
The depth of the wound?
Start the dialogue with the unseen?

The flame protected in the folds
of a primeval skill,
now singes the clarity.

Between you and I no space was left.


Satish Verma