A Hot Patch by Satish Verma SignUp
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Theme: Life Share This Page
A Hot Patch
by Satish Verma
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  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 the 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.
 

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May 18, 2012
More By: Satish Verma
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