Satish Verma

the burning coal has gone to sleep, 
before igniting the dry grass. 

Eye to eye colliding 
turning you into ophelian mess. 
Light had gone back to black matter. 

It was a frisk season― 
in sick society. The hidden plaques 
have come out in the blood stream. 

You are now backtracking 
on the uphill, ready to fall 
from the green heights to connect with ground. 

For keepsake I will 
again unwrite the book 
not mentioning the stillbirth of freedom.

allets's picture


does not sound good as the balance tilts to the way down side,