The Ghost

By: Satish Verma

THE GHOST

The pain is, what it is, not the fear

of not becoming.

you disappear when the sun sets

and a black rug greets you.

Scarred mind

under the empty skull

prepares for the exit

as dark sea splurges on the shrine,

trying to erase your name.

Life had been too hot, sometimes

I am the water, you said

There was no snow.

No flakes, no fixing, no drugs.

No flowery fuzz

why you were transported to foreign landscape?

I was neither your friend, nor enemy

still you opened my black silence

to read the poems

you did not understand.

The other self between me and you

a meaningless ego

wakes and sleeps

to be or not to be

what you are? Not a ghost.

SATISH VERMA

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