I care less,
walking on plateau.
Now,
mind rejects the peaks.
A small patch of green,
I knead on ice
of firm orbs.
This sterile landscape starts a fire.
My hands knit a taciturn probe
to enter the inconceivable.
The particles sleep in metaphors
of a baked sky,
where the stars bleed every night.
The fear looms large.
I sit in the crevices of hurts
to reduce the dimensions of time.
Satish Verma