YOUR WAKING HEAD

Your impressionist, 
rift, comes through 
uncontrolled hands of fear. The snake 

was shedding the skin. 
Not walking, 
flying like a rage 
discharging the burns 
in the river of blood. 

I shudder, 
in the cleft of a grain. 
Hymns were howering over the book. 

One by one 
the leaves fall, to unravel the secrets of 
unvoiced grief of earth. 
A thin faith crumbles 
unfinding the lost shroud 
of a messiah.

Satish Verma