* Velvety Return

Like a dung beetle you were guarding the tunnel, I will not let the ball roll away, a grain of ache in my tooth.Why you had to go, on cathartic release of mutual trust ? A stone in the heart, ice on the wings, there will be a terrible crash today. He died by his own hands, failing to reach the ceiling of solid pain, trekking across the memories in deep waters. The born depression had the bride of moon without flesh, beyond the gaze. A hand holds the sunlight reaching your eyes. You may swim with fish in mid stream of death. SATISH VERMA * On the death of Nicholas Hughes, son of Sylvia Plath in Alaska on 19th March 09.