Poezja

Yes, your name was sliced off
from the impasse. I will stand with you
to track the continental drift. How little
I knew about you and the prosthetic words.
Again and again I return to ruins, and
the dust and crumbling absence. Eyes
will speak for the wordless silence now.

Who will tell the truth for the murdered
thought? The cognitive silence? You don’t
want to see the light. The soul sits outside
the body. Pollution hits the mind. The words
eat the emptiness of facts and lies. A vertical
descent of speech.I should not have
listened to cries.

A memory moves in zigzag manner, accepts
the odyssey of man’s failing gods.


Satish Verma