TERROR TRAIL

Shedding the wholeness of negation 
you arrive: fear was sweeping the floor 
when smoke screen of love was hung on 
blue morning, you groped for a hidden 
coin, lost in the woods of mania. Distinguishing 
a chaste word, without thought, ejected in a 
traffic of terror, you want to join a primitive 
tribe where a motherless fawn will harvest the milk 
from the breasts of a women. 

Talking of a global sorrow into the green 
eyes of a snake, an awareness breaks, sucks 
you inside the hole of a wronged motherhood, 
the anthology of big nails on the walls of 
understanding, where the traditional colors 
throw up the wasted bodies, making you think 
tall, and you were running in a dark tunnel 
climbing and falling to attend the funerals, 
of moon gazing children.

Satish Verma