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Satish Verma If time moves,
the spark will remain live
in space between the eyes.
You were a concept
what didn't fit for you.
We say it casually―
the ghostly pouncer
was a blight.
How the appetite to live
gracefully was, becoming stronger?
But the eye contact was waning.
You look back at
your footprints. Where they
had taken a wrong turn?
The triangle refuse
to play chess. Nobody was
taller than dice.
Inch by inch I
followed you, when I
grabbed at you it was a cloud.
