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Invisible particlesInvisible particles

I care less,

walking on plateau.

Now,

mind rejects the peaks.

A small patch of green,

I knead on ice

of firm orbs.

This sterile landscape starts a fire.

My hands knit a taciturn probe

to enter the inconceivable.

The particles sleep in metaphors

of a baked sky,

where the stars bleed every night.

The fear looms large.

I sit in the crevices of hurts

to reduce the dimensions of time.

Satish Verma

--------------------------------------------------

INVISIBLE PARTICLES

I care less,

walking on plateau.

Now,

mind rejects the peaks.

A small patch of green,

I knead on ice

of firm orbs.

This sterile landscape starts a fire.

My hands knit a taciturn probe

to enter the inconceivable.

The particles sleep in metaphors

of a baked sky,

where the stars bleed every night.

The fear looms large.

I sit in the crevices of hurts

to reduce the dimensions of time.

Satish Verma

--------------------------------------------------

INVISIBLE PARTICLES

I care less,

walking on plateau.

Now,

mind rejects the peaks.

A small patch of green,

I knead on ice

of firm orbs.

This sterile landscape starts a fire.

My hands knit a taciturn probe

to enter the inconceivable.

The particles sleep in metaphors

of a baked sky,

where the stars bleed every night.

The fear looms large.

I sit in the crevices of hurts

to reduce the dimensions of time.

Satish Verma

--------------------------------------------------

INVISIBLE PARTICLES

I care less,

walking on plateau.

Now,

mind rejects the peaks.

A small patch of green,

I knead on ice

of firm orbs.

This sterile landscape starts a fire.

My hands knit a taciturn probe

to enter the inconceivable.

The particles sleep in metaphors

of a baked sky,

where the stars bleed every night.

The fear looms large.

I sit in the crevices of hurts

to reduce the dimensions of time.

Satish Verma

--------------------------------------------------

INVISIBLE PARTICLES

I care less,

walking on plateau.

Now,

mind rejects the peaks.

A small patch of green,

I knead on ice

of firm orbs.

This sterile landscape starts a fire.

My hands knit a taciturn probe

to enter the inconceivable.

The particles sleep in metaphors

of a baked sky,

where the stars bleed every night.

The fear looms large.

I sit in the crevices of hurts

to reduce the dimensions of time.

Satish Verma

--------------------------------------------------

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