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Half-Closed Lids
Folder:
Satish Verma This nothingness was overwhelming.
When words fail to tell the facts,
only silence talks.
That brutal interrogation of self
to undo the decline, like a
a viper in your home.
The mortgaged glow of stoned infant
in the exiled land, brings
the exodus of shrunken legs.
A shadow survives on the debris
of frozen voices,
sluicing through the cries.
Open the stitches of night.
Death was skirting the prison.
No ropes. No ropes.
