satishverma

And Many Eyebaths

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I shut myself,
you becoming a fugitive,
of the neo-genre.

Birthing a truth―
of this world.
No one was a prophet.

In my inconspicuousness,
I touch you with my poems,
to cross the gloomy door.

And the cup remains
half. You kneel in a prayer
to seek what was not possible.

Who would become blameless
if there was no crime?

The gifts of love―
lie scattered. I cannot
solve the jigsaw puzzle.

A heart bleeds without crying.

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