Poezja

A candid confession from you,
when your identity started protruding
from innocent rage.

You were accepting defeat
without a fight.

The lips tell the grief of human failure,
your prudence propped up
by Prozac.

A beautiful collection of anxieties
adorned on the shelf of life.

A cruise in veins
to dispel the high cholesterol
dewy-eyed mirror
and ambulating pain.


Satish Verma