THE VACANT FRAME

Self – immolating silence 
softens the pain, an art of solitude. 
Evening drifts to come closer to moon. 
Night is summer washed. 
Small stars are trembling 
on blue waves. 
The night climbs down 
from the brown hill. 

Agony of life filters 
in your eyes. 
Unspoiled tears leave a trail of liberation. 
Sorrow was insipid in your dark book. 
Possessing a blue surge, 
a nothingness bloomed 
into a smile. 

Space fills the dreams, 
coarse picture and empty memories. 
The vacant frame holds only the waiting. 
Centre was gone. 
The boundaries have captured 
the colorless fragments of thought, 
dry bones.

Satish Verma