Breaking From Past

Fighting with his ghosts, intimate dirt, disseminating pain he was going home. Finding a panic room in pectorals, for numbness of toes, lifting the door of burden in dying vision, his father comes in daylight of old age, climbing the stairs of bones, swaying like an ash tree in frost. One counts the annual rings of old trunks, depicting mighty happenings, black and white green summers of choked life, tasting one’s own decline, filling the cups of rosemary,a child learns to speak thatched words of wasted birth in tune with younger years of grief. SATISH VERMA