Your Waking Head
Your impressionist,
rift, comes through
uncontrolled hands of fear. The snake
was shedding the skin.
Not walking,
flying like a rage
discharging the burns
in the river of blood.
I shudder,
in the cleft of a grain.
Hymns were howering over the book.
One by one
the leaves fall, to unravel the secrets of
unvoiced grief of earth.
A thin faith crumbles
unfinding the lost shroud
of a messiah.
poem by Satish Verma
Added by Poetry Lover
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