Poetry

It was getting dark.
The insane curve of greed was rising.
I would not draw the boundaries
between the words.

The finch was immersed
in soliloquies and light was waiting
inside the seeds.

I open my eyes
and yell at the clouds in hyperboles
becoming stranger to myself.

Who belongs here
in slit eyes? Each flower was leaving
a blemish, for the winter.

Tell me,
who you are in the twist of reality.
A proverb is going to be taken away.


Satish Verma