Hold Your Breath

Satish Verma

Something was always 
missing. I wouldn't 
recognize me. 

In my quietism, 
I dig out the words, that 
would give me otherness. 

The ocean accepts 
the martyrs of woody frames. 
Fuel was not sufficient 
to burn them. 

Moon sizzles in 
black fumes. Pure cotton 
was needed to make wicks. 
There will be a night vigil. 

Where the crowd assembles. 
I will present the thoughts 
of a wandering soul 
of unknown prophet.