Counting
When you were rolling in dust,
a puritan said, truth was me.
It was getting dark in Himalayas.
Black words, black themes.
You have started a journey in daylight
in a hot desert of fear.
Tormented, because of the heat
of arguments. Mimicry makes you sick.
Mocking birds fly straight for lofty peaks.
Self-denial was hurting sometimes
against copious rewards and generous handouts,
like pinned on a totem.
The happening must start
with hidden promises of price.
SATISH VERMA
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2010
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment