Ubiquitous Being

I look at a slice of sky and weather from the window of my sick room tethered to the bed by depression. Time has come. Somebody will lay me open. Must I suffer with deep holes in buried mind where tears have drenched the folds? Everyday I burned my fingers in a blast solely to test the truth, and for reading the verse, rubbed my eyes with a dream. An imperfect wave struck at the legs, wavered me for a minute and then washed away. Sitting within tragedy rise a song, I understand its fugitive moans, watch the face, I am not a martyr but an ubiquitous being. SATISH VERMA