The paths of my mission would be rows of roses, I thought.
To my shock, in tipsy turvy twists and turns, I got tossed
Didn't I desire to know the known to know the unknown?
Each wish of mine, like worn-out shoes of a nomad, got torn.
The moon of joy in my gains should have been at the zenith.
Struggles, like palms, tall-grow. Bliss, like dried grass, peeps from beneath.
Like iron-rods in saline waters getting eroded
The weakness of my will, like pumpkin buds, is unfolded.
Virtues, as fallen scaffoldings, are disintegrated.
Absurdity, like the blood red moon, is reiterated.
My vigour, before my puniness, like a dewdrop, fades.
Apprehension and anxiety, like gems, I adorn.
Pessimism lifts its head like boom-slang cobras from burrows.
Coffins and graves compose knells. The deceased have no repose.
Death and decay have become the blessed norm of the day.
Despair and disappointment, like thorns, pierce through every way.
Self-confidence is erased like mud paths during monsoons.
Will the Times, like the rainbow chromas, bring multihued boons?
Categories:
scaffoldings, angst, life, sad,
Form: Rhyme
The spirit hovers.
I am not interested in a
séance. Let me come face to face
with the book to share clean
or unclean thoughts.
Not able to print my deep
angst. A clash of cultures. I
will call the unprinted scream. The
dismembered limbs begin
a dance of unfolding
the hate.
It was a jig.
Of scaffoldings for the
peacocks to shed their wings.
Everyone was falling for the green-gold
to be embossed on the dust
cover of life.
Satish Verma
Categories:
scaffoldings, art,
Form: ABC