Strange Phenomenon

Satish Verma

You are brain-dead 
with amnesia 
in winter snow. 

A frozen pulse, without blood 
running, bluish-black 

Was death always black? 
Not like supple, red poppy 
leaving the stigma mark 
on your white shirt? 

Landing amidst the 
crowd, of funlovers, there 
was no exit, and I must 
meet my enemy 
my shore.