Poetry

The noise of a crescent
climbs wordlessly.
In the night of dew and wind, for
its native starless beams-
holding the thread of a thought, walking
through wall of disbelief. Before and after
the murder of a spark; the heart misses
a beat. Cold sweat rustling on forehead;
you bend to pick up a coin,
a fake one. Possibility of becoming rich fades soon.
You want to say nothing. Troy, Michigan, USA


Satish Verma