FUTURE SIGNS

arriving to shun that wolf 
on your blood’s trail, 
you comb through rubble, 
tormented: 

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glimpse of fear, 
fixated at otherness of yellow sin, 
threatened, panic white, 
suicide note; 
now you have come out from your tremors 
stillborn, sine die 

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with umbilical cord around your neck, 
squeezing, 
choking, 
after shocks settling on interrogator: 
I am running aground in deep waters 

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and your body becomes a boat 
of terror, disbelief, later a collaboration 
with seeds and birds, this smelt side 
of truths, I regret my art

Satish Verma