No Time For Mourning Poem by Satish Verma
No Time For Mourning
Without shadow
an agony, slits me open.
As when I bleed.
I write a poem.
It hurts,
when you touch the words,
the lines, the paragraph―
the page.
From teaching
to be a learner―
a long odyssey from―
innocence to scream.
My namesake, my akin
dies daily. I dig a mass grave
to find my twins,
where the god lived.
Friday, November 11, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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5/2/2024 10:12:29 PM # 1.0.0.1119
