AN UNBORN PRAYER

A twisted journey starts on wings 
after the end of the road. Ambition 
sits in corner, 
nonchalantly and a tempest 
hollers around the spires. 

Broken down from parched ceiling 
a mural turns into a mundane knife. 
Lifts the rage, 
of the fallen shirts 
and starts a war with bleeding arms. 

Light weeps on the shoulders of night, 
I am not yet conceived in the womb. 
Suns and stars 
beyond the innocent years 
have not crossed the boundaries of guilt. 

Naked mankind sits on the banks of grief 
after the futility of mourning 
for death. A child rises from the shadows 
of flame. 
The eternal burns become green.

Satish Verma