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