A Ghost Dream

When you swap
your emotions with red moon,
my poem bleeds.

A huge graffiti becomes
visible, when dark clouds
gather for the gossip.

In absenteeism,
you were the sharpest pain
of my pen.

A purple smoke was
rising again, without―
a flame. One beat skips
and hundred blames come.

You don't speak
your mind. Pure faults go
unnoticed. The conversation
drops between two blades
of grass. Magenta
moon drips.

Satish Verma