Poezja

A silent war with oneself
devouring all the cells,
the gory remains of words
and grainy kisses of tears.

A curved hook in the mouth
to start a prayer for the freedom
from whispers of brand and labels:
liberation from the weight of testaments.

Bruised glints from the flesh dripping,
wriggle on serene rocks of resolution,
before the sin was discovered. A poem
was awarded to me for excitement.

An eye and a mirror, a gulch and a stone.
The smiles are fatal, the blood is pure.
Hot sun bakes the sand, nudges the
skull and a pal of gloom settles for eternity.



Satish Verma