A HOT PATCH

All the wayward words
mock me for inadequacy.
I remain detached from meaning,
emigrating to eloquence of wordless solitude.
The hymen breaks.
Dumb poems cry. I don’t want to be buried
in ruins of daydreams.

Sandstorms have a strange melancholy, holocaust.
A legitimate uprooting of faith.
Sometimes I feel a hot patch
of sun on my face.
One moon away was my cool,
abode in a green painting,
but the frost never melted.


This darkness is only companion,
I will talk to winds.
The comments on riddles will continue.
A selection of memories,
will make my meditation.
The friction in history was shame.
May be love will win.

Satish Verma