Decks Are Cleared

You are dying inside me, my little god. I am awakening after a long pause. The forked hazel wand does not bend back, perched on a buried treasure. I am disembarking from divining. I stayed without body, nervous; like aspen leaves trembling at slight doubt, hearing footfalls of dew drop. Fear of old fear arrives again, when the seeds begin to explode in the womb of a fallen tree. For the spoken word, sting in the tail becomes star-struck. Death zone enlarges on black pyramid. Conscience is on its descent. SATISH VERMA