Some Ghosting

Satish Verma

Hunting calm, without 
a kill, without a 

A momentary lapse 
and you suffer 
for centuries. 

The pangs of separation 
were rising.No birth. 
You become a white mausoleum. 

And the ancient 
bloodshed will take care 
of the pearls in your eyes. 

Ask the moon 
to lift the veil.Bonfires 
of sharp pains have begun. 

The halo around 
your face quivers.I was 
not a god.You were not mortal.