Standing on deathway,
choking back tears,
for a stance.
There were few minutes left,
when you took the cover
under pervasive falcon.
Was it not a
molestation of a baby moon,
when you wash your sin in dimlight.
Amazing was the
religion of short legs.
An ailing mother was waiting at door.
You strike a chord
(while I don’t stir)
before anointing the dark.
The battle of penultimates,
after a hill down
shackled to river.
Satish Verma
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