INSULT THE DEATH

Blows had blackened the mist, 
fear of crossing the road, dented the veil. 
‘Ism’ versus the boundary had a long rhetoric. 
I was struggling with scars of learning. 
Pain unwrapped the gift of rhythm with confession 
bitten by skorpios, blue and cold. 

Finding the cause does not solve the rigidity. 
Entering my own genome, increases the panic attack, 
where I am heading after all? 
And today sun beats the unentered thighs 
marrow, blood of a martyr, who pledged 
to die to himself between enquiry and truth. 

Fragmented self now seeks totality 
and the mystery of staying alive, 
when the hills are dead and green had turned around. 
As usual I am meditating, to live or not to live. 
The greatness of earth still impresses, 
it does not insult the death.

Satish Verma