Poetry

There was a portrait under the landscape.
Whispering of clouds,
writhing body and
tense folds.

The sorrows hold out
a veiled threat.
Mortality itself will finish the epic abstraction?
I am not sure, and then the fog rises.

Afraid of flames -
a man was burning alive in inferno,
the red blooms of serial blasts.
A hairy bigfoot runs through the passions.

The fractured faith scatters wild words
like childhood screams.
The very living was night of kills
a freedom in movement of time.



Satish Verma