We always searched for the center,
the dark hole of a naked mind.
World moved in concentric rings,
like onion peels.
I scream at myself,
on the absurdity of finding,
A truth which had expired.

If the trees could talk in end,
and bail out
the saint of fallen apes
I will start measuring,
the deafness of a storm,
its eyes squinting
and whose deep genitalia,
had delivered a still birth.

Why should we mourn
for the unfolding disaster?
The loneliness and despair,
are not the big themes.
And no body cares to listen,
to the ripped confessions.
A purple patch appears on the green heart.

Satish Verma