Poetry Collection by Prabhat Verma
My poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song which either arises from a bleeding wound, or from a smiling face.


Sleeping on this grave of glory,
Almost dead, climax to my story,
Sepulcher awaiting my flesh,
Spell bound to profanity of freedom's dress.
Wondering blindly in labyrinth with anticipation,
Living in exile, then dying of segregation.
Am I bound to mortality by surly bonds of immaturity?
Yet I crave for fame, more than I need security.
Is this a tragedy, or am I just insane?
For freedom, fame & honour I hold utter disdain.
Everything I hate, I despise,
Then I despise what I despise
Sheer whimsical, fickle state of mind
Why do everyday I turn blind?
Unable to see things I want most,
I miss out on love my beloved boast.
Putting up the same façade everyday,
Waking up another day to end up the same way
Then I search for my grave of glory,
I sleep on it and forget rest of the story.


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