Last Flowers Poem by Satish Verma

A hero demands affection, the heat
for a surrogate role
of a saviour of oppressed.
Deafness increases
towards the integrity of a failed man.

To become something after impotence
with implicit metaphysical rags
worn in chains of blind silence.
It was all, molesting the parting hour,
or nothing, obscuring the pressing hope.

The game continues to bluff the speechless
for casting a spell on innocent vision.
Essence and rose want to separate,
no sensual dive in the sea of
silken love with blackened hands.

The other forehead has a smear of blood.
My fingers move in tender wrongs, you
did not deserve this cold night. Nothing
will happen to the vase. I
am plucking the last flowers.