Still In Grief

Satish Verma

I have become disconnected. 

Talking of pose, while shooting 
in back, several questions 
arise of a staged drama― 
missing the lethal word, 
releasing the venom. 

Poetry of politics becomes evident. 
You may spurn the actors, 
but the pretence overwhelms. 

For testing the secret of depth, 
you go down in water 

You pull a stretcher, now― 
unwrapped. The cremains sink 
in the sea― of tears, 
unsettling the designed pebbles, 
the needles. The tapestry starts burning.