Under The Mist Poem by Satish Verma

Aggressive posture of silence
sweeps the mind.
I preempt the drowning of septum
in calving ice.
The ostium ultimately opens
to spill over the therapy.

You go into the cave-
to pull out the new born thought.
The day runs again for bread-
and butter. There are
no holds barred. It
was an intact valve.

But the heart blew away
the soft feathers.
I cannot fly now.