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
