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Breaking Point
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Satish Verma Where do I touch
you in dark? You don't have
the skin, like water.
The echoes were dying
in the stillness of nightbirds.
Do you call it tranquility?
Unhinged, a sharp cry
moves around a Michelangelo,
unbelieving in last judgement.
Catching of the falling
leaves in autumn, reminds
you of impermanence. Yet I
will explore eternity.
The call returns. Time
to collect the bowls. Roses
are dead at altar.
You cannot stitch the wounds.
I will again
measure my height.
