INVISIBLE PARTICLES

I care less, 
walking on plateau. 
Now, 
mind rejects the peaks. 

A small patch of green, 
I knead on ice 
of firm orbs. 
This sterile landscape starts a fire. 

My hands knit a taciturn probe 
to enter the inconceivable. 

The particles sleep in metaphors 
of a baked sky, 
where the stars bleed every night. 

The fear looms large. 
I sit in the crevices of hurts 
to reduce the dimensions of time.

Satish Verma