TWILIGHT

On periphery of gestures and casts 
I speak for fading integrity while a fossil 
of a scream was stolen from the womb 
of language. 

On becoming silent, an untitled truth 
shakes sensibility. Small vignettes track 
the battleships of calligraphy. The sermons 
wage a war. 

The saints praised the puffed up sheep, 
suffered the asylum of Atlantic for astral 
hopes to cross the folds of virginity. Splashed 
motherhood refused the onslaught of tears. 

You make inadequate love, exiled in 
intimacy. Blood-drowned statements 
will not make to the surface of time. Century 
moves not for you, not for me, not for him.

Satish Verma