When the dialogue stops
there will be a royal bleed.
I had not come to the
terms of slaughter.
Wanted now, to manage
the anguish incontinent.
Can you find some space in
waiting, for the hangman?
Footprints and invisible faces.
Somewhere a hope lives in amber.
Trapped light, in wintery dark,
will stop a seed to play the nocturne.
Satish Verma
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-hope-3/
