After the Assault
The hurt of a game.
Myth has played with the-
life of a song bird.
A dream becomes opaque.
You cannot find any-
image of blood.
A window shuts-
the moon. The rainbow will
grope for a sky.
And I must find
some excuse to live. The nascent
hope outleaps the black-
rain falling on eyes. Panic
grips poppies. They throw up the
color, the fresh dawn.
Satish Verma
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2015
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