No Rivalry

Satish Verma

Something― you wanted to 
say, which you would not. 
Planet breaks― disheveled, weeping 
being― unbeing. 

Sometimes you play a game 
of trembling legs― 
waiting to run away 
from your anguished inside. 

The last hour of night 
blinks. A baby sun about 
to be born, and you find yourself 

The black letters, on yellow 
pages, under the streetlight 
dance. A fat dream burns. 
A book bleeds.