Manipulating grief, dirty hands -
open the lid,
release imagos. Eyes are blank.

You unravel the last of roses.
Surface tension wavers. An imbecile
sky pours the eyes, nose and ears.

Courtyard fills again, morphed resurrection.
I am persona non grata
in my own home. The moon does not cry.

Mystical lights. Headstones not legible.
Lockjaw. Waiting for morning-glory.
Stars are blinking.

Still I am stupid, courting my failures.
Cushion of thorns, I am weary of heavens.
Me, this earth, I do not die.

Satish Verma