In Disguise

Raising the walls around you, you started a ritual of placing a single rose on the tomb daily. Trapped in the blues, there was a killer instinct to destroy the self. I become a flame, passing through the flesh eroding the body’s mystique. The ravage words now sleep. A dying moon will set the night free. It was an invasion by deathless roots at night. A slow music starts by puppeteers to undo the potter’s field. Satish Verma