Satish Verma

A wax house you were 
gifted to live in sun. 
No comments. As if the chess 
game now starts. You do not know 
how to move a checkmate 

Always a looser. You do not 
want to win this game― of 
betting the cemetery― where your 
ancestors were buried. No― 
body has come to claim the remains. 

Unkissed, the seeds will wait 
to become antiqued, till a 
historian finds a shovel. A 
state of mind, you were very poor. 
I will not cry for the fall's colors.