A little death comes every day
for the lost age.
The fingertips write your name on
ice, to burn in sun.
and still, I will say it was good.
Searing poverty of words
scrambles for a suicide vest.
No meaningless truth can save
the kleptomaniac. After the demise
of a sentence I can say, would
not go for an award. The struggle
to live in some pretentious
sexuality of the curves was over.
A trident will find
the torso of revengeful god.
Appearance was deceptive
in entire race. The father of waves
takes a bird’s-eye view
of the verses flowing from the
icy lips of peaks.
Satish Verma
