Trigger Point Poem by Satish Verma
Trigger Point
A missile in the home,
what they have done?
You are on flames.
A red smoke rises
from bottomless hole.
Memory slumps.
A glow in pain washed
cells, calls the mirror.
Instead, grave diggers arrive.
This was the manufactured truth
of the eternal kiss
of death. I stretch my arms
to feel the terror.
The walls start crying.
There was no roof.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
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4/26/2024 12:10:06 AM # 1.0.0.1119
The last two lines bring the terror alive in a mysterious way.