Satish Verma

Bending the forked-stick to find 
underground water ― 
and immortality of thirst. 

Lips were fragile. There were 
no dew drops on the upper lip. 
It tasted like a frozen moon. 

Clouds had sucked the childhood. 
No one picks up the fireflies 
from dark bushes. 

Tasered by stings, the moonlight 
hangs by the window. 
I watch you undressing. 

After the blizzard, a rocking chair 
waits. Hypothermia. The musical 
return of the mute did not take place.

allets's picture

Writing Is The Thing!

"...the musical return of the mute..." a satish image this one - nice ~slc~