BOTTOM OF A DOORWAY

There was once a worried face 
who unbuttoned 
a white fire 

in a pink hole 
of an eye to lift 
the fingerprints 

of depression. It was 
a closed-circuit 
for a galaxy of 

hot flares and flying hurts. 
You must not cross 
the threshold 

of silence, abducting 
the blood stained 
words. 

Come back to your home 
O grief, 
the fog is thickening outside.

Satish Verma