Foolish Sparks

You will see and will
not see, at the same moment;
the son of moon,
and daughter of earth―
not meeting at the horizon
of lids.

The hole in the back
of skull was widening. An
atheist becomes a Greek God,
edged out after a heart wrenching
departure.

A trail of blood follows,
after the sharp words pierce
your poems. Dying in pieces,
becomes a daily ritual.

To be different was
very painful, like white mushroom
turning back to black soil.
Who will walk in the footprints of light?

Satish Verma