Poezja

That tribal instinct sits in the denial.
Words fly in fog carrying absurd meanings.
I was ready for the impeachment.

Like a pinned butterfly
you lived several times, repeating
a dialogue on a mindless thought.

From nothing to nothingness,
you reach nowhere, over and beyond.
Where now? A state of deadlock?

Too insignificant when you climb down
against the black magic of language.
You loose the center by waking up.

Between this death and the next
you throw something in the ring,
to show my life was deflected.


Satish Verma