Satish Verma

On the run, 
was a bon viveur― 
in amber thoughts. 

I start unknowing you― 
O invisible. A curse 
will follow if you make me 
a god. 

I plead, standing 
on the rubble, I will not learn 
to live without the muse. 

Sometimes you disappear 
unshorn, in the rain forest― 
of stunning phrases. 

I hold, 
the existence of a ghost. 
Undying for the sake of 
forced acceptance. 

That was the art of inevitability.