The Bell Tolls

Satish Verma

Standing at the edge
of soreness,
stopping by a waning moon.

It was a weird thing.
You forget your name.

I was the game,
you were the hunter.
Half on your lips,
half in my eyes.

A handsome tragedy
will always wait by.

Two randomly scorched
souls, light-years apart
want to meet in twilight
of the gods.

There was reluctance
to stand up to moon,
who had white heart.

I will ask you
to take a final dip.