Poezja

I have peeled off my eyes.
Fear of unbeing creeps in,
genes were escaping.

The thin affair bends
under the burden of vague uncertainty.
A smoke rolls out from choking throat.

A word leaps high from wounded pride.
The author does not know the sting,
blames the ears.

Hails will strike when you open the door.
The past will question the future,
the anguish of infinity.


Satish Verma