Name was more beautiful than the face.
It was charisma of night.
A dream without the eyes.

Laughing skull on the road
opens a wound,
and dying footprints were neither consenting
nor refusing.

A faticity clamps the flow of blood,
I was counting the stitches,
somewhere the pain was reappearing.

Interpersonal hate had a story to tell:
greed, anger and bullets.
The legs were chopped off from truth.
He was not faithful to sun.

In my heart lies a trapped river.
Its history is old, its water was humble.
Uncontaminated was the knock on the door
to a melting of white snow.

Satish Verma