A Hot Patch

Satish Verma

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.