PASSION IS A HURRICANE

Ending of the thought 
does not bring a lull. 
It is a sequel beyond 
my reach. An old extrication, 
I dig for my roots. 
The forgotten names, 
the unhealing wounds of a doctrine, 
a tiny memory of pulsating embryo, 
not yet born! 

Fear generates a kill. Ferocious movement 
inside the cells slowly, 
you become zero without a center. 
The tangent skips 
on your surface. Claustrophobia. 
You start breaking the walls. 
Fighting anxiety & shame 
a timeless timber without a foliage. 

My ignition point is hurt in 
the new culture of game. 
How we approach the road, 
which smells the death, 
blood or smoke? 
The passion is a hurricane. 
Uproots all the bones, 
shatters all the roots. 
A glory reckons after a while, 
for the election of sorrow.

Satish Verma