By: Satish Verma


I liked to adore a wall minus any hanging
a huge blank space to imagine
and draw conclusions.
Anything traced looks strange on canvas
upside down like a man's life
A plain truth of nonsense.

I loved the corners, where speed was interrupted
then comes a pause, to look around
and ponder. Where the path went wrong?

What was the most intimate moment
between cloud and sky when they buckled the sun?
The rain will tell the grass.

One can hang on to one godfather. Too many
spoil the taste and alter the task.
I like to go for a new recipe of conflict
where the smell rubs and language is tough.

After all who was in making
I or speed ?
And who is going to judge the gratitude
of time?


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