Doing nothing, for no
obvious reason, engaging
the travails of self-watch, I do
not want to confront the propensity
of withdrawl.
The elder pain blooms, again
like Ipomea. Will not stand the
bright sun’s gaze, I will sail?
out between the blackened
teeth and stammering
words.
It sucks, the female snake.
The phloem, the flora. A tree kills
its own birds. Cannot ambulate
tender promises. A stricture
chokes the poem. Double-
edged truth lifts the weight.
Moon knows the art of giving.
Sends the blood tears.
Satish Verma
Categories:
ipomea, art,
Form: ABC
Unmaking the bond
between cause and effect.
You start throwing stones
as a mark of intimacy.
Ipomea:
You wanted to learn the
art of blooming silently
at dawn.
Huddled like solar flares
before colliding with
a drift, you wanted me to live
for eternity.
Watching sperm dance
without tails
in bell jar.
It was barely visible.
Cultivating a digital entry.
This was becoming
a terror-haven.
Satish Verma
Categories:
ipomea, art,
Form: ABC