Musing On

Satish Verma

There was an urgency― 
to finish the job, 
beheading the tulips. 

Wolves were coming. 

The surveillance had failed. 
Nothing but clouds between 
the titles. 

Writing was illegible. 
It was the last offensive 
of blankness. 

Before the dawn. 
You have to draw a crescent 
moon on my forehead. 

I am going to scream.

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