Miracles Happen

by Satish Verma   Dec 29, 2022

No, I don't think,
when I write. My poem
finds its own words.

The thought
moves stealthily. You put
your hand on my hand.

Your eyes now
search the lost kingdom
of trembling nostalgia.

Will I remain
human? Living amidst
the burials? Do the dead

Was there a casualty
at beach? You will not swim
nor drown, for becoming
a nightingale.

My eminent revere
was to live, waiting for


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Latest Comments

  • 1 year ago

    by Ricky Story

    Talk about some skilled necromancy. Lol.