Satish Verma
Drifting Pain
I am in retreat, for a music
of visitation,
playing with the words.
Mission failed,
the upheaval starts in the islands
of void, to find out
who was unglazed.
Folding the protuberance
in a pilfered fidelity, the shards
had no input in violence.
Mistrial. A half-mad moon
crashes on grass. The fireflies
resume the journey
to darkness.
The fangs were out
in green charm, in fierce silence
of the exhumed vault.
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