ON THE BREAST OF FLAMES

Dismembering the wreath,
he went on celebrating his own demise.
Shadow had become a white shroud.

He was spitting blood, when slugs,
hit him from behind.
No body remembered his name

We had been dividing the roofs.
My moon and my sky.
I feel my eyes have turned into marbles.

Castaway I float on conscience, with
blemishes, doomed muscle.
Sun and water were baffled.
Raged against the invisible walls
I was breaking my knuckles.

No body knows, who will outbid
whon. I am lying low,
to rise one day
like sphinx,
on the breast of flames.

Satish Verma