Entire life, you were postponing to become
what you were,
neither accepting, nor refusing it;
making way to run away,
and postscript was not ready.
Life never treats you leisurely,
a harsh tone gobbles you up
with a salty taste.
In you pocket a nickel hurts
Your hands tremble on turning the knob.
Time to wipe off a name,
like hot mud covering a daisy.
The face floots in the mist
a tear becoming a marble.
one resolute insider goes in exile.
SATISH VERMA
