That grave alchemy 
of cold fusion, 
of turning mercury into gold, 
makes me undone 
in a fit of anger. 
Punished before the crime committed, 
of saying no for yes, 
of disobedience in the face of a command, 
I am becoming a beggar again. 

The land of gold dust 
evokes a disquieting sadness. 
Smell of hunger and blood, takes 
me to concrete nothings, 
collects the emptiness from the wrinkled eyes. 
The lake-salt, dry loaves and onions for a quiet dinner. 

Fear in absence, 
starts a fear of future, 
the sound of unblinking darkness whispering.

Satish Verma


  • baj-a

    your poems take me to a place that is not always comfortable but is always honest even in it's stark reality of life. very well penned!

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.