Losing The Vision

Satish Verma

I left a piece of moon on my 
table and started writing about 
the broken mirror. There was a time 
when we used to cry together. 

Dusting off the old books, uncared 
for months. A rare ritual 
defines the motion. It was the 
temblor giving me a dustbath. 

Do you know who was the leader 
of the pack? The greed, the authority? 
There was a bright door, between 
the umbels. Would you taste the hemlock? 

Every thing is in disorder. You 
remember how cranky I was when 
I found you unframed. Today 
I will embrace the empty wall.