Concealed Fever

Satish Verma

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.