The template had the fault,
I was buried alive.
Brick by brick they erected the cell
I could see only the reflection
of a moon at night
in my glass of water.
During the day sun peeped through the cracks,
was hurting and very disturbing,
forming a skull and crossed bones
on the walls.
I watched a piece of sky
as a hub of pallisades.
I planted a word in that hole.
After one seed, there were many
echoes. Starting in the distant hills.
I was rising in red fog.
Satish Verma's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (FAULT LINE by Satish Verma )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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