Satish Verma

In my blood book
what was your
divine constant?

The arithmetic fails.
a black hole― sucks in,
the brilliant stars.

I was collecting
the rare salt, from the
abandoned beach of eyes.

Poetry was the flesh,
bones. Heart stops
beating, when images drop.

We will not speak
in dark, when the moon
was rising in the east.

Not lived to die.
The road will not end.
Every word becomes a milestone.