REASONING

There was a portrait under the landscape. 
Whispering of clouds, 
writhing body and 
tense folds. 

The sorrows hold out 
a veiled threat. 
Mortality itself will finish the epic abstraction? 
I am not sure, and then the fog rises. 

Afraid of flames - 
a man was burning alive in inferno, 
the red blooms of serial blasts. 
A hairy bigfoot runs through the passions. 

The fractured faith scatters wild words 
like childhood screams. 
The very living was night of kills 
a freedom in movement of time.

Satish Verma