UBIQUITOUS BEING

I look at a slice of sky and weather 
from the window of my sick room 
tethered to the bed by depression. 

Time has come. Somebody will lay me open. 
Must I suffer with deep holes in buried mind 
where tears have drenched the folds? 
Everyday I burned my fingers in a 
blast solely to test the truth, and for 
reading the verse, rubbed my eyes with a 
dream. 

An imperfect wave struck at the legs, 
wavered me for a minute and then washed away. 
Sitting within tragedy rise a song, I 
understand its fugitive moans, watch 
the face, I am not a martyr but 
an ubiquitous being.

Satish Verma