Blind Alleys

A nascent cry
demands the signature
of space.
I will start the self destruction-

clawing back
on the land of
betrayals.
The rule of sky was at stake.

Trees were burning
and the birds
want to grasp
the stark reality of notional violence.

In dark hour
I know not words
to lift the eyelids
the cloud, the flowers, the blood!

Satish Verma