Unhurting

Unshackled, the pallor moon
was lying still, in a white―
shroud of clouds, only face
visible, staring―
down languidly.

I have come afar,
from the whispering dark,
to annul my existence.

Your hands tremble,
carrying your name. The
magic of unsaid―
poems, working.

Life had been a Medusa.
The blues, the reds, the
greens, overbearing.

Scores will be settled
when moon,
goes down.

Satish Verma