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Satish Verma In the culture of self, and wilting idol
who was going to interpret the truth?
To resolve the inner conflicts
of an ailing mind?
I tell no one my validity,
my loss, and my sudden realization,
of a dying aura.
Give me a poem, a childhood, a dream
I wanted to live,
without maligning a mirror.
Without a cold-blooded
murder of truths.
Life was becoming a waiting in blackness for an
audience with god.
A thought sits whole life
on a ruined model of a truth,
trying to get freedom from the
celebrated events of greed and hate.
Windows are not supporting the light.
Time for the greens
to make a decision.
