Poetry

I was not capable of
contradicting the quietness.
A silent emotion was insulting me.
Forgetting the self-denial
I went for choosing the impossible.

Am I sick of myself?
The agony overwhelms me with mystic relief.
Here and now I feel the human spirit
outsmarting the gifts of revenge
in the eyes of past.

No hope of breeze. It is hot inside,
the spirit burning. False peers
were scoring with debts of darkness.

Tiny ideas crowd the mind
flying straight through the mist of anguish
I elect to be nothing.


Satish Verma