Mending The Omens Poem by Satish Verma

My pick,
I will keep on giving you my best,
after the fear bath.

The cosmotic pain
caves in. Hirsute limbs climb
the steep cut of fog.
I will not punish me anymore.

A nagging doubt lingers on.
How long the dark night will last?

It causes a nip
in your voice. You speak very faintly
to understand me.

The earthly smell of your bare lips.
wafts in. Was it a surrender?

You become misty.
You tremble, like a poppy in
scented wind.

Like a walking fern. I may touch you.