ON THE GALLOWS

Lead me into, the green darkness, under 
the nude flames. 
It was hurting; the golden sun. 

Out of full moon, werewolves would 
come out 
chasing the flesh, the long limbs 

of silence, in asci of fluids, stopped 
in tracks. 
No seed will grow now in wilderness. 

My extended shade becomes anarchic 
if fleetingly. 
A miracle falling like a hurricane.

Satish Verma