Poetry

Days are crisp,
nights chilled.
A lake of fluid fire, under the clouds,
prepares for a virgin assault.
I do not thaw the frozen hurts,
respect the disguise of the old lover.

Hearing my own voice from a distance? I
stand by the shore,
discover my lost home,
become a valley of sphinxes.

And the wetland kicks the pain
of earth to break into insanity of scars.



Satish Verma