Everything Was You

Satish Verma

A poem dies in me. 
I search for you again 
deep in my breast. 

The initial spurt of 
the raging thought― 
sleeps on the rags. 

With scrawny fingers― 
you write a verse of― 
moon in night. 

The half-moons rise 
in the vacant looks 
like venus flytrap. 

Do not pluck the― 
blood roses. My fingers 
were still bleeding.