REVVED UP

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