LAST FLOWERS

A hero demands affection, the heat 
for a surrogate role 
of a saviour of oppressed. 
Deafness increases 
towards the integrity of a failed man. 

To become something after impotence 
with implicit metaphysical rags 
worn in chains of blind silence. 
It was all, molesting the parting hour, 
or nothing, obscuring the pressing hope. 

The game continues to bluff the speechless 
for casting a spell on innocent vision. 
Essence and rose want to separate, 
no sensual dive in the sea of 
silken love with blackened hands. 

The other forehead has a smear of blood. 
My fingers move in tender wrongs, you 
did not deserve this cold night. Nothing 
will happen to the vase. I 
am plucking the last flowers.

Satish Verma