TIME’S BURDEN

I am not too well, he felt. 
The flames chased him in charred landscape. 

Fighting over, he pondered about the 
crime within, the surge to find a nest hole. 

A wounded pride where the salmonella hits. 
You enter a slot for more enticements. 

Any patch of vague tragedy among the barren 
desirability, shares the accident with sacrifice. 

Unhappy, you reverse the mode of retrieving 
against the terms of swimming alone. 

Where was the death’s arc to capture 
the mistakes of life? Was an archaism 

sufficient to kill the untruth? No implant 
will enhance the height of achievement.

Satish Verma