An Abstract End

Why the naked cells of
heart- were fearing exposure
of blood pain?

The poem at midnight speaks itself
without throwing signs unto
the moon.

The night slaughter,
of beautiful dreams begins
in the hands of the
dead light.

There was no myth
of mercy. You cannot exonerate
yourself for not jumping
over the vipers.

The venom spreads
slowly, reaching the distant
thoughts which were buried
in wet eyes.

A red scarf
covers the blue lips.

Satish Verma