WAKES THE BLOOD

Walking alone in 
the dishevelled inner space 
I find peace in my failure, 
an innocent patch of a silent hurt. 
The futility of hollow beliefs 
crawls like a spent thunder. 
Truth remains unborn. 

I cross a bridge where eterniry begins. 
The freaks chase the shadow for a while, 
the idea so excruciating 
they melt in conspiracy of silence. 

In oneness and suchness 
the harmony drips 
from infinite pores. 
The seed has a history. 
Lost in resonance of outer space, 
now wakes the blood, 
distorting the ripples.

Satish Verma