My Injured Self Poem by Satish Verma
My Injured Self
In your big eyes
my mission ends.
I lower the flag to half-mast.
The steps were small
to follow the footprints
of the demise of an affair.
Embracing the words,
you had felt pampered by
the demigoddess
of broken hills.
The white muslin, weaves into a wreath;
would be laid on the unbuttoned secrets.
The night watchman
stands guard till the last
candle burns out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/25/2024 1:09:57 PM # 1.0.0.1119
The blade is stained with life. A film of translucent memory begins to dry, shrinking, pulling at what is near. This too will pass, cleansed away with work that must done. The turning of a screw, the application of paint to cover the patches demanded by repairs.