There was once a worried face
who unbuttoned
a white fire
in a pink hole
of an eye to lift
the fingerprints
of depression. It was
a closed-circuit
for a galaxy of
hot flares and flying hurts.
You must not cross
the threshold
of silence, abducting
the blood stained
words.
Come back to your home
O grief,
the fog is thickening outside.
Satish Verma