In Harmony

Satish Verma

A sudden shock, 
when a snakeskin starts moving. 
Behind the shut doors 
a conspiracy was hatched. 
Son of the moon― 
wriggles on palms. Sneaks 
a glance at the diving sun. 
Cut and glued, a mourning looks 
in the eyes of a Titan. 
The anarchy raises its head. 
The make-up cannot be 
taken off. It will expose 
the artless faces. 
When eyelids flutter 
of a fallen angel, you think 
it was an imperial command. 
A pause in pain. 
You float on ice.