What Was It?

Moon rolls,
on its own without
clouds.

Now you can,
fix the things, reading
dark.

Every day ends.
The road will not sleep.
Dusk to dawn,
candle weeps.

Like no pain
now, of your separation,
sparking rage.

Now you are
Plato. Will write for
the ascending hemlock, that
will destroy the hope.

Satish Verma