Thinking Off

I walk through the slush of moral grief. Here lies my mortal poem. A prodigal menace. You will not breathe in, the golden grass, once more. Lingering beside the past, the savage today. I pick up the silence of the tomb. Lateral conjugation. You come from the otherside to breach the wall, bear the pluralism? and become none. The under- belly, the yellow blood ? Will you hold my hand to cross the meaning ? Satish Verma