WRINKLING

Give me not your style today: 
the visceral truth, liberated 
from painkillers. 

Spying singles out the flesh 
after the resentment of torture 
to do more wrong; 

going away in yesterday 
puts the life in apocalyptic shade, 
the orange condoles for dark 

when I lie still on flames 
of sandalwood, setting the sun 
bleed in blue eyes 

of lonely sea. I am again 
sleepwalking on salt lake ready 
to draw the boundary of reasons, 

the second-hand stitch for the eternal wound.

Satish Verma