Poetry

It was not worth it.
Building of castles on the dirty roads.
Offering spiritual coalition
of unscented certainties.

Admission of reversing the course of river
does not exonerate.
Mind polluted, face dripping with fantasies
clairvoyance, but confirming nothing.

Quasi-tales mingling with facts
take you to summer of hopes.
You are not here. I feel a cheap anonymity.
Charred body, clayey hands building a tomb.

Frond unfurling from the stump
gives a clue, without plea.
Rising from nothingness
to unending nothingness.

Satish Verma