* Velvety Return

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Like a dung beetle you were guarding 
the tunnel, I will not let the ball roll away, 

a grain of ache in my tooth.Why you had 
to go, on cathartic release of mutual trust? 

A stone in the heart, ice on the wings, 
there will be a terrible crash today. 

He died by his own hands, failing to reach 
the ceiling of solid pain, trekking across 

the memories in deep waters. The born depression 
had the bride of moon without flesh, beyond the gaze. 

A hand holds the sunlight reaching your eyes. 
You may swim with fish in mid stream of death. 


* On the death of Nicholas Hughes, son of Sylvia Plath in Alaska on 16th March 09.