Striving Hard

Satish Verma

Like inky jet, 
ejected on white paper, 
the cuttlefish 
of a poet― 

was warding off the 
unseen enemy. 
The dry flattened 
chest, would remind you 
of a chalky desert. 
Only cacti grow there. 

You go into a trance, 
then convulsive seizures, with 
a loud scream. You 
invoke the toddler god 
who would kill king cobra 
fifteen feet long.