Unbecoming Of The Poem

The fat moon
rises, when the bland earth
gives a call.

Like the black magic
of depression, in fall,
overwhelming the silence.

Of not becoming, what
you wished me to be,
or not to be.

A conflict always,
climbs the wall to overlook,
the pain of separation.

This winter, I am not
going to witness, the death
of night birds.

Satish Verma