Poezja

Awareness becomes a burden,
with opposite thoughts in conflict,
Crawling like roaches on your skin.
Sage or beast it was same.

They run on the bricks in sun
or drift at night on unwrapped voices.
Every thread of a dialague
rakes up an old sickness.

The stammering tongue will never tell
the name of the priest,
who led you to the pond
and drowned your ethics and morals.
Who was the culprit?
your hood or your arrested silence?

The same thought comes again and again
in single file.
The past presents a missing link
Between no and yes.

Satish Verma