Taking Off Frills

Satish Verma

I was always looking 
at your face. 

One of trinity, 
the fallen spirit, that 
did't bore any number? 

A visible mark 
betrays the flying grief 
of a pagan. 

Between the cacti, 
desert was blooming. No 
water, no river in the eyes. 

The smoke was 
rising, in all its viciousness. 
The panic was writ large on the face of moon. 

How far was the death 
camp of unwanted dreams? 
I am not bone, I was not flesh.