A Hot Patch

by Satish Verma   Mar 27, 2016


All the wayward words
mock me for inadequacy.
I remain detached from meaning,
emigrating to eloquence of wordless solitude.
The hymen breaks.
Dumb poems cry. I don't want to be buried
in ruins of daydreams.

Sandstorms have a strange melancholy, holocaust.
A legitimate uprooting of faith.
Sometimes I feel a hot patch
of sun on my face.
One moon away was my cool,
abode in a green painting,
but the frost never melted.

This darkness is only companion,
I will talk to winds.
The comments on riddles will continue.
A selection of memories,
will make my meditation.
The friction in history was shame.
May be love will win.

    report violation
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Latest Comments

  • 8 years ago

    by DarkLight

    It took me ten minutes trying so hard to come up with a comment to this poem, and still nothing.
    From the title, choice of words and the flow is such a breathe taking to read not once not twice but a number.
    There nothing I could say to describe the feeling, the enticement from your poem.

  • 8 years ago

    by Mr. Darcy

    Hello,

    This is excellent work. I have read it again couple of times and your words meander like a cloud lost in a labyrinth. The mystery is enjoying the riddle.

    Take care,

    Michael

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