by : Satish Verma


My arm aches while holding the book,
thing poetry.
Press me hard, doing your best.
Squeeze tightly my heart,
until it bleeds, untied.

sometimes takes you to desert of grief,
in the moonlit night,
to talk to ghosts of yesterdays.
I stop at the dunes,
waiting for the music of gentle winds
to caress my body.

Peace at last,
away from swoops and bites.
The time holds the hands
and walks with you leisurely.

Being, of which being we should talk,
of naked greed?
or virulent desires?
nexus of game with hunters?

The scars will seldom heal.
Pain was necessary for nemesis, manifold.