CONNIVED

Weaving fine fibres of unripe 
beliefs, from a fire base, a blue bird 

scrambles, shading the stone valley. 
There was no thrift for the cadavers. 

The burnt relics were eating away the greens 
of tearful eyes. Sun was slugging again. 

A gag, a prison, a list; the trial was not 
ending. A smell of burning leaves from a 

guilt of smouldering garden, seeps through 
the procession of thoughts, something which 

cannot be questioned. Red blossoms of 
clouds distract the blue flames of stars.

Satish Verma