MAULED SELF

Timeless I dream about 
a sleepwaking into death, 
inside me. Lifting in sound 
and the wet silence. 
The boisterous stream of years rolls down 
like the debris of earthquake 
from the hill. Life casts out 
the pretentions, 
throws the tears at my gate. 

That was not me, 
the smoke from the footprints 
the failed virtue. 
Black sweat of my arms started, 
the disposition of blind truth. 
The enquiry provoked 
a further dialogue between time 
and sun tanned cancer of a city. 
The death of a whistle blower. 

In the stillness of mind, 
I enter to meet the mauled self. 
In the wordless flesh a drama unfolds. 
The tongue fixes 
the blame of a desireless god 
sees only a shining darkness 
of a suspended faith. 
And a mad fadeout, amputates 
the linear thoughts.

Satish Verma