Afterimages

A whisperer with its begging bowl
wants a moon in alms.

A candle burns in panic.
The serpent was sitting in a prayer.

The golden teeth will find the apples
leafless, pleading for a fall.

Stoking the fire, you step on a ghost.
It was a fake, I scream.

Do not tamper the ruins of the tower.
They are going to find the death masks.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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