Historical Grief

Folder: 
Satish Verma

A perpetual war between 
frame and content feeds 
the fire! 
I step outside the house of thoughts. 
The death begins the counting and 
jasmines start crying. 
I hear the over-worn desert 
blowing the sand. 
A raw stone throws up a sculpture. 

Midnight knocks on the door were loud. 
Rain was banging, moonlight drifts in. 
The huge cloud outlines 
the ceremony of deluge. 
Abstract ideas have to be clothed again. 
The naked truth stops the clock. 

A proxy death shatters me. 
I also die in a dome. 
Night melts in hissing sounds, 
time becomes a paper weight. 
The splender of quartz cracks. 
Demolition is complete 
historical grief now takes over.

allets's picture

I Have Grief Lately

This poem speaks to all the pried open pathways that lie dormant until death happens. Thanks for this one that addresses the raw and not the overly cooked. - Stella


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