Concealed Fever

It is raining.
The water colors.
I miss the ache.

When, to wear a crimson
dot on forehead, the sky
had become a bride.

Destiny fractured.
Why did't I tell the lies

to achieve the greatness?
Not my effects. I stare
blankly at your portrait.

Blaming the conceptual
crisis, you cannot speak the truth.

Weaving a web of unseen
threads, you hold a poem
ready to take a flight.

Satish Verma