Collected Thoughts

Like tussoh, I collect snow 
after the blizzard, churning 
the quartz, O December. 

Time to hang my boots 
and listen the call to quarters. 
Windows would kill me. 

I had my horrors 
I had my wine. 
The moon was still calling. 

My thumb bleeds 
for white skin of sun. 
Who was depressed in night? 

The collateral damage 
is bound to happen; if drones 
don’t listen to me.

Satish Verma