Satish Verma

I wanted nothing
from you, O prophet
of the holy tomb.
Lie in rest.

The living memory
fails, I look inside the
sepulcher. There were
only dry rosed petals.

At peace in temple of
flagellation. I am catching
blue butterflies.

I go for metaphysics.
Try to deceive myself
and forget the real.

In defining the being,
an angel wants a
pound of flesh.

Nothingness wins.