The Other Periphery Poem by Satish Verma

Hurting yourself,
You won't say anything about
falling notches. It bruises, it
bleeds.

You will condole,
and like sundew, trap my poems
in backfoot.

Explicitly I will ask,
never stop crying.
Your neighbourly pain will descend.

Its lips become dirty,
when facial expression of moon
alters.

I want to change
my religion, drumming up
the nuances of refusal.

It wrongs you,
when an acceptance,
means never.