Poetry

An oriole gives
an edgy call
in the blaze of morning.

I am not fully awake,
sky is melting on window.
Death has company.

Zen, it did not connect me
with your god.
I am tired of pretentions.

Small was the wasp
in a cobweb of pain.
It floated a sign of conflict.

My thorn did not prick your petals
in vain. Dead leaves
started bleeding.

Satish Verma