Counting
When you were rolling in dust,
a puritan said, truth was me.
It was getting dark in Himalayas.
Black words, black themes.
You have started a journey in daylight
in a hot desert of fear.
Tormented, because of the heat
of arguments. Mimicry makes you sick.
Mocking birds fly straight for lofty peaks.
Self-denial was hurting sometimes
against copious rewards and generous handouts,
like pinned on a totem.
The happening must start
with hidden promises of price.
poem by Satish Verma
Added by Poetry Lover
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