A Hot Patch

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. Satish Verma