Fierce Mooning
Trotting along;fighting death –
with delaying techniques.
Chemo had failed.
Weeping Ashoka, how do I
name you differently ?
I may not see you again.
I am hurt, very badly.
Absolutely rooted, firmly
in autumn. My leaves were falling.
Pushing back the interface
between smiles and tears;
the trespasser goes to moon.
It was traditional,
garlanding the poet-
who had killed his muse.
Satish Verma
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2013
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