QUICKSAND

After the death, mediocre paperweights rule
on the pages of life.
The leading light will wander in ruins for
centuries.
Hot winds spray the sparking dust on
smooth posts,
desert picks up the artist trapped in confusion
I pray for the rains.

Give me a chance. I want to replay the
forgotten script.
Can you spread a blanket on the wounds
that were not mine?
Nobody gives a call. They were overshooting
the quicksand.

Satish Verma