Plasma Oozing Poem by Satish Verma

We listened deeply to the sounds
of seed power of duality.
I was very restive
there was no time to review
the veracity of benevolence.
It was a flight of songs,
a passage through silence.

The event and nonevent,
became burning topics enslaving the angles of lips
and splitting the smiles.
If you wanted to feel the truth,
you must undergo splendid mutation,
to read the grains,
the sun, the rains.

Here comes the moon
sailing on dry bones
of our trivialities;
of our banalities,
shutting off our thoughts.
Multiples of our arts,
our performances,
had the plasma oozing
from our buried themes.