BROODING

Me and my pride, 
me and my hurts. 
Who are you, which you are not, 
a verbless statement of nirvana? 

No pain 
no asking, narcissism. 
A stream of unbecoming. 
Eyes wide open 
jaws tightly shut, 
sitting in a corner, brooding, 
brooding. 
Now what? 

A stunning duplicity, 
a surrogate god 
was running an empire. 
Precisely polygamous 
on the name of a latter saint 
annihilating the third image. 

The future demands its past, 
its mode of becoming endosperm 
in a sleeping leaf.

Satish Verma