MAKING OVERTURES

Night.
A scantily clad sky,
with unkempt clouds.
Moon was climbing.

Caved in.
I had nothing left
to say, except
soundless poems.

No regrets;
in this climactic
struggle of life. The
pain eases, when

memory fails.
The flesh engages the
spirit. End would wait
till the grass banks.

Satish Verma