The space covers me now.
Words stayed too long
beyond the thoughts of I
and my landscape.
A burst of silence soaks me.
What was history,
a voyage to rough awakening?
Absence of a voice makes me suffer again.
My religion burns.
Life is a dark smoke
I will write a message on your palm.
Give me a breather,
the distances make me sad.
Black dust drifts through
the slits of our predictions.
At least I know what I am.
On a sunny day
I break a mirror.
My fingers slide like scissors,
open the envelope.
I know it has a sermon,
I don’t want to read.
The depression has a lunar touch.
I break a flower into hundred petals.
Satish Verma