Satish Verma

The myopic tongues 
of tall trees, going downhill 
to find the roots of four-letter words of dead, 
unspoken, but sung in dark. 

They had come out of the skin. 
River was flowing on emotional track, 
with heavy eyelids. Father said, 
he would never die. 

Your unborn children were tasting 
the salt of the road still untaken. The pain 
in the neck was grizzlier, 
when the sun was retreating in virgin hole. 

Moreover, the wrinkles will tell the tale 
of truant hands who would not 
play with the silken adolescence 
of a delirious moon.

View satishverma's Full Portfolio