EXPLOSION

Spitting the blood, he said, 
every winter for few days – 
he would feel outcast and there was 
pain in the idea of pain, but he wanted to live 
without a painkiller. 

Sometimes he will singe his hands on a flame 
to protect his dignity. The history of his 
unrest remaining untold. Then he will go 
out in rains of knowledge and soak himself 
in mixed joy. 

A lump in the throat hurts, when he 
tries to decipher a dream to measure 
the life. A liar knows the complete death 
of a truth to assert his independent existence 
in myth. 

A deadly poison of the choosing, 
your own microclimate, aggrandizement 
of royal tradition, makes you popular in masses. 
They surge to touch your gown, ripping 
the explosion.

Satish Verma