Throwing Down the Gauntlet

Crossing the burning barriers, you take a fatal jump. Brazenly, but giving little away. Long shadows of ethnic clouds were eroding the sun. Feeling the wet lips you rub you sweaty palms in vain. Haunted, you would like to kill the ghosts. You pull a silken cord. A silver urn upturns the ashes of your past. Each truth walks without legs. You are still incomplete. The self-portrait will never hang on the wall. Satish Verma