Eyes half-shut, you are seeing,
unseeing to house the failing light.
When the tornado writhes down, will
you come to clean the rubble ?
And splash the bird, the sky in purple ?
I am afraid of myself
to explore the craft of non-living.
When the silence descends, I will
know myself, like the bone of Buddha.
The words will not give
any relief, whipped into terror.
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2017