Concealed Fever

It is raining.
The water colors.
I miss the ache.
 
When, to wear a crimson
dot on forehead, the sky
had become a bride.
 
Destiny fractured.
Why did't I tell the lies
 
to achieve the greatness?
Not my effects. I stare
blankly at your portrait.
 
Blaming the conceptual
crisis, you cannot speak the truth.
 
Weaving a web of unseen
threads, you hold a poem
ready to take a flight.