The Perspective Fault

With a live moon between―
us, you were staring beyond me
in blank looks.

Shackled, you hang―
from the past praises.

In a crematorium you will now spend
a night with some noises
in penitence.

You have to come out from
the old scripture and invent
a new libretto.

No breathing room was left
in the crowd. Would you
become a little wee taller?

Meanwhile I will listen to bird songs.

Satish Verma