Satish Verma

Unshackled, the pallor moon 
was lying still, in a white― 
shroud of clouds, only face 
visible, staring― 
down languidly. 

I have come afar, 
from the whispering dark, 
to annul my existence. 

Your hands tremble, 
carrying your name. The 
magic of unsaid― 
poems, working. 

Life had been a Medusa. 
The blues, the reds, the 
greens, overbearing. 

Scores will be settled 
when moon, 
goes down.