The Trappers

by Satish Verma

There was left no middle
of the path. It was a washed-out
theme and negative numbers.

No bounce in the steps.
You were cowering in terror
of tomorrow. The fear
overwhelmed the alps.

It was a family feud,
from ashes to bones.
The mixed cadence was sending
the wrong signals to the walls.

The voices now come on the street,
for traditional wars, in
change of seasons. It
was raining out of turn.

26-Dec-2013

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