Satish Verma

A textual study 
of pain and bliss. 
I was coming for a reprisal 
from a temporal crisis 
of intimacy. 

Always gnawing at me, 
the roll down from 
love to hate. Which was 
impersonating what, like 
a talking parrot? 

Soft murder. You will 
half-die, poker-faced in 
grey night under the full moon, 
holding a poem 
written for a black sun. 

I shall never get 
over my dilemma.