CROSSING

The body was arched in a denial mode 
on the rose bed, unsettling human emotion 
in the train of lots. A broken chain 
of thoughts outranking the holiness of crime. 
I am not getting the signals of fire, sparks 
or flames. Only smoke on the mirror. It was 
becoming a murder, discarding the clay, terracotta, 
color in Indian summer. A sensuous dance 
begins, on the mobiles. The portfolio contains the 
numbers of streets for total annihilation so 
the visual footprints will disappear. The mathematical 
progress of genes halts. Million fingers will 
write history of wailing waves, frightened 
of hot winds.

Satish Verma