Flying Straight

Trembling,
you whisper― like an aspen
in self doubts.
No words were coming
no rhymes I heard.

I was here beside an angel
for honey bites.
No tears had flown,
no veils were drawn.

As I asked for nothing,
you give me bit by bit
the grains of truth, filtered
by extreme pain.

Am I not playing
a gamble? Sneering the
ashes on god stones, to bring
you back, my religion,
my faith.

After all I measure you
as the peacock flies.

Satish Verma