Unbecoming Of The Poem

Satish Verma

The fat moon 
rises, when the bland earth 
gives a call. 

Like the black magic 
of depression, in fall, 
overwhelming the silence. 

Of not becoming, what 
you wished me to be, 
or not to be. 

A conflict always, 
climbs the wall to overlook, 
the pain of separation. 

This winter, I am not 
going to witness, the death 
of night birds.