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Thinking Off •••
Folder:
Satish Verma I walk through the slush
of moral grief.
Here lies my mortal poem.
A prodigal menace.
You will not breathe in, the
golden grass, once more.
Lingering beside the past, the
savage today. I pick up
the silence of the tomb.
Lateral conjugation. You
come from the otherside to
breach the wall, bear the
pluralism―
and become none. The under-
belly, the yellow blood?
Will you hold my hand
to cross the meaning?
"...bear the pluralism―"
When I read a line like this I go all over the place (pluralistically) to withstand: people, crowds, variety's offering, weight of being, bombardment of stimuli, world view reconcilled, expose the plethoric, the substance of writing that trires to unveil everything, surviving any onrush of emotion, or onslaught of the seeable or touchable. Rich image for getting lost in. ~Stella~