Your Waking Head
Your impressionist,
rift, comes through
uncontrolled hands of fear. The snake
was shedding the skin.
Not walking,
flying like a rage
discharging the burns
in the river of blood.
I shudder,
in the cleft of a grain.
Hymns were howering over the book.
One by one
the leaves fall, to unravel the secrets of
unvoiced grief of earth.
A thin faith crumbles
unfinding the lost shroud
of a messiah.
SATISH VERMA
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2009
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment