Invisible Ink

Satish Verma

I will meet the moon 
on the terrace, 
when the dust settles on the 
lids, smothering 
the uncharted barricades. 

Life had been full of dresses 
to play the lead in 
conflicts of alliance vows. 

Like untouched goodbyes, 
you hover around the exit― 
to seek the blessings of dark. 

In the glasshouse, you cannot 
walk nude. The wounds, the scars 
the burnt-out fabrics 
will tell the truth. 

A priest will invoke 
the mercy of the vessel.