The Vacant Frame
Self – immolating silence
softens the pain, an art of solitude.
Evening drifts to come closer to moon.
Night is summer washed.
Small stars are trembling
on blue waves.
The night climbs down
from the brown hill.
Agony of life filters
in your eyes.
Unspoiled tears leave a trail of liberation.
Sorrow was insipid in your dark book.
Possessing a blue surge,
a nothingness bloomed
into a smile.
Space fills the dreams,
coarse picture and empty memories.
The vacant frame holds only the waiting.
Centre was gone.
The boundaries have captured
the colorless fragments of thought,
dry bones.
SATISH VERMA
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