Intersection

Your feet had
turned stones. The return
of the gale will find―
blood marks.

Embalmed was your
spirit in my roses. The
heart of garden trembles.

A lone pain
flutters in exile. I will
not meet you at moon.
The greek tragedy repeats.

The spark was
caged. I was trying to
find shelter under bottlebrush
in howling rain.

I will not call a stop.

Satish Verma