Poetry

The displaced years
cling
to your body
like an extended death.
I wanted to see
what could not be seen
by clutching.
the lifeless doubts.

Emotions play:
potentials are threatened.
Remaining alert becomes a
punishment. I grieve for the dementia,
the night yawns. The walking trees
start swapping the roots. Folds of sorrow
whisper of morality.

The apocalyptic prophecy wants to know:
“Have you ever seen the hell? ”


Satish Verma