DYING SCREAMS

Shall we go like innocents with heavy 
breathing in the pool of blood to find 
the innerconnectivity of a boldly beautiful 
death? In the open pit of an ancient gold mine? 

There was a loss of hidden dance, in the 
cancer striken human chain, chiseled on the 
grey walls of history. The artifacts stolen, even 
the ankle-bells of a toddler had gone up for a sale. 

A visual oval gives a liable comment. A 
flame nauseates a baby doll. The yellow hornbill 
puts up a fight for the sake of memories. 
There is a huge silence of the rocks, moaning inwardly 

None of me was a god. A simple slum’s promised 
dream.Hungry roads will lead to a ruined temple.

Satish Verma