Come Whitely

Satish Verma

Moon injured― 
after reaching climax. 
At the death of a poem 
nobody was ready to climb the pyre. 

A collapsed river was 
sleeping in your eyes. I will 
come and wake up the sun. 
Now I am melting. 

Some troubling signs were there. 
You were becoming vulnerable, 
if the rock cried. And you 
wanted to die in my arms. 

O brute, cold-blooded 
murderer, the shadow of the comet 
was lengthening. I don't 
want any roses for funeral. 

A self-image had the last laugh.