Fireflies

A pagan will search for antiparticles after a collective wrong: some tantric will throw up the smoke rings before the poean starts. Come, stand beside me, sadness is going to find me again on the oak tree. A hairy spirit climbs up to give a call of a touch wood for a voyager. The viscera has been packed for the final verdict of a forensic lab. Now I have nowhere to go between myself and truth. It might not end, the poor conversation between life and death. The eyemask saves the guilt of sleepless nights at old punctuations. Makes the words ferocious for the lamenting cause. From tree to tree the fireflies swing. SATISH VERMA