Poetry

I want to shake them off,
weird thoughts,
like a swarm of bees,
buzzing, whining, aimed at nothing.
Want to write me off?

Loneliness. I
observe the hands of a watch
looks like they are not moving.
Time stands still.
Waits for me to move.

An atavistic ache.
Again I view the world.
Every body is making a sound without bending.
With dreams dead I step into emptiness
barefoot, to feel the earth.

Not going to quit,
free to kill my ghost
I move into sunlight.


Satish Verma