Adding To Woes

Again I would hear the night sounds through the hours of civilities when there was a pause in the body untouchable. You were sleeping with counterfeits, running down the golden dome sailing over the silken clouds. My rough palm was still holding the pen. That mirage, that fire on the road had cheated us. You had pushed me in an aging portrait. Alive, I am looking at you from an empty glass. Satish Verma