Drifting Pain

I am in retreat, for a music
of visitation,
playing with the words.

Mission failed,
the upheaval starts in the islands
of void, to find out
who was unglazed.

Folding the protuberance
in a pilfered fidelity, the shards
had no input in violence.

Mistrial. A half-mad moon
crashes on grass. The fireflies
resume the journey
to darkness.

The fangs were out
in green charm, in fierce silence
of the exhumed vault.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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