For Intensive Eyes Poem by Satish Verma
For Intensive Eyes
There was something
between the lips.
You will not recite my name.
A muted word―
becomes a psalm at
execution. There was no
crowd to witness the grace.
If I prepare a book of
all my defeats, would you
write obituary.
The antiquities had become
alive. This was the beauty
of lunacy.
And the saint was dead
without meeting his god.
Sunday, May 21, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/19/2024 7:34:04 AM # 1.0.0.1119
