After The Ceremony Poem by Satish Verma
After The Ceremony
I would be riding
your stumps― to
byzantine castle
of ardor.
It was not
my thesis― to make
me blithsome.
You were your own enemy.
In a crushed phenomenon
I was sketching you
in coal, without scratching
the face on moon-paper.
The room
crumbles. Space shrinks.
I cannot touch you
in moments, in time.
What I bequeathed
remains unclaimed.
Once again you have amazed me with your lyricism your faultless word useage and the ebb and flow of your words thanks
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4/24/2024 5:36:59 PM # 1.0.0.1119
The witnesses all wore blindfolds. Not because Medusa danced, but that the ointment might work. Might give respite. That sight, while the pupils were out driving in a rented Bugazzi, might find the brake.