Barreling Down

Now talking of the snowstorm
you wanted to go deep
in the woods and find out
where the small birds sleep.

It is all white like
the cotton candles, or white heads
of witches sitting in a crowd
to turn you into a tasty morsel.

Who eats whom? The stinging
cold reminds you of the frozen
relationships. You don't want to
recall the warm hugs and kisses.

The fear of dying unclaimed,
haunts. You want to be buried
alive unnoticed, in snowy white
lake of tears and eternal sleep.

It should be less explained,
with a foot note. There was
no gender peace.

Satish Verma