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Waves Rolling
Folder:
Satish Verma Come November―
I will wear the fall
of varied colors.
Crunching on withered leaves
of your memories.
There was no birthday.
When the world sleeps―
I write a poem, looking
at the rubble of life.
Opinionated, the time
suck like a beast―
brazenly.
It was a stunning defeat
of the dawn, of the nonviolent
sprouts under the scorching sun
of the gaze.
Trying to assuage the
realization. I am no more me.
