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Mending The Omens
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Satish Verma My pick,
I will keep on giving you my best,
after the fear bath.
The cosmotic pain
caves in. Hirsute limbs climb
the steep cut of fog.
I will not punish me anymore.
A nagging doubt lingers on.
How long the dark night will last?
It causes a nip
in your voice. You speak very faintly
to understand me.
The earthly smell of your bare lips.
wafts in. Was it a surrender?
You become misty.
You tremble, like a poppy in
scented wind.
Like a walking fern. I may touch you.
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“Poppy in scented wind...”