From The Womb

The póetique listening
to the reason, as foggy
as the past, untelling the
future of midnight onslaughts.

The rain of emptiness, was
playing havoc with the
fiery cross. No orchestrated
withdrawl, I am―

preparing myself for the
supersonic cruise missiles of
vendetta. Golden heart,
you will carve out and eat.

The bluebirds. They had left
unannounced. This summer
the snowy peaks will melt,
for a lone tree.

Satish Verma