Author Information
Feet Of Clay
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Satish Verma Who am I to know
the abstract silence
when you drink the moonlight all alone?
The black toes of a dying woman
haunt me in a stream
of white shrouds. A night
of shattering perceptions,
defaults and ignorance.
Time bomb was ticking.
It had been troubling me
the betrayals in night
mothering a vegetable past.
A single finger defines
the authority of future.
I traced the proud shadows of a god for,
a useless reference of illegible wisdom,
untold misery of green waves mirrored in sky.
For extracting death
from life at every step
I knew the answer.
Dying was not a private thing.
The truth and the path would die.
How you dreaded the closed doors?
The explicit fear of drowning
in beliefs with brothers of
sorrow and feet of clay.
