Satish Verma

Like black birds 
homing in twilight, to the tree 
my thoughts make a perfect landing. 

I lift the silence in sleep. 
A flying snake enters 
a pink room. 

A bullet pierces the heart. 
No acolytes, I will 
catch myself the drifting smell 

of eternal caress. Basking 
in pain I pluck up my 
trail in rubble of dreams. 

You defy the likeness to god 
become poor like an undershirt. 
and walk straight.