The Vacant Frame

Self – immolating silence softens the pain, an art of solitude. Evening drifts to come closer to moon. Night is summer washed. Small stars are trembling on blue waves. The night climbs down from the brown hill. Agony of life filters in your eyes. Unspoiled tears leave a trail of liberation. Sorrow was insipid in your dark book. Possessing a blue surge, a nothingness bloomed into a smile. Space fills the dreams, coarse picture and empty memories. The vacant frame holds only the waiting. Centre was gone. The boundaries have captured the colorless fragments of thought, dry bones. SATISH VERMA