One Saint Walked Over The Ridge

Death will not listen;
still, the candle burns,
in blue dark
and sets free the sun.

Will you hold me tight
when I shed my identity?
I was going to start a silent prayer
for this earth.

I forget, that I always remember
the green pain
which lived in the bones of winter
when dawn was breaking.

Night settles
on secret thighs of shame.
I still smell the scent of blood
flowing from the lids.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!