Not An Opus

Satish Verma

Gray murder it was,
of the bright sun over the
maple tree. I was falling all over the
crunching yellows.

A dark cloud covers the
hazy vision, of brown eyes,
looking through the walls.
As if you are being buried alive
between dry leaves.

This will be known as
sheet of shame spread
over the shoulders of pain.

I will miss your
sorrow, your grief of
not kissing me in snowfall.

The peaks don't mary.
They stay single in the plateau
of love, not washed out but
broken in hearts.

Am I going to relive
my past in future?