After The Ceremony

Satish Verma

I would be riding 
your stumps― to 
byzantine castle 
of ardor. 

It was not 
my thesis― to make 
me blithsome. 
You were your own enemy. 

In a crushed phenomenon 
I was sketching you 
in coal, without scratching 
the face on moon-paper. 

The room 
crumbles. Space shrinks. 
I cannot touch you 
in moments, in time. 

What I bequeathed 
remains unclaimed.