The Tragic Intimacy

A crisp moon rejects the night, 
the words retreat, like fallen truths. 
Stillness was palpable 
silhouettes moved in vacancy. 
And we did not know where to go, 
how to find the cause of life. 
World surged forward like a spider. 

The dust, the heat 
and a breathing sorrow 
met in the twilight 
of immaculate pain. 
I hated the drooping lights 
and burning of feathers. 
Birds were dumb 
to say how cruel 
the benevolence had been. 

I fell upon a thorn 
who witnessed my incarceration. 
A fire in my eyes, I glowed like a volcano. 
Fogs were hanging 
like veils on eyes of moon. 
I tasted lichens in mouth. 
The tragic intimacy 
of an old poem.

Satish Verma