Poetry

There was once a worried face
who unbuttoned
a white fire

in a pink hole
of an eye to lift
the fingerprints

of depression. It was
a closed-circuit
for a galaxy of

hot flares and flying hurts.
You must not cross
the threshold

of silence, abducting
the blood stained
words.

Come back to your home
O grief,
the fog is thickening outside.


Satish Verma