Some Ghosting

Hunting calm, without
a kill, without a
mirage.

A momentary lapse
and you suffer
for centuries.

The pangs of separation
were rising.No birth.
You become a white mausoleum.

And the ancient
bloodshed will take care
of the pearls in your eyes.

Ask the moon
to lift the veil.Bonfires
of sharp pains have begun.

The halo around
your face quivers.I was
not a god.You were not mortal.

Satish Verma