Writing On Parched Skin

by Satish Verma   Jul 21, 2022

For feeding a false tree
of life, beheading
a god was becoming a passion.

Snubbing the checks
and bruises, you
love to be alone in a mad crowd.

As if to be ready
for disintegration, you walk
in pain. Astounded
earth starts shaking.

In unwholeness, the
lamps become dark. The bones
were visible without light.

You want to run
with a comet, away from sun
in coldness of frozen smiles.

Don't drag my shadow.
I am fixed like a legacy.


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