Behind your face
was cleaver
releasing past poem.
The sensual milk
flows from the palm
into your lake.
Grieving for
the torn wings of pink
light.
Cruising on thighs
with eyes closed
death utters a shriek.
The eternal flame
closes on pollen
to tell a lie.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: June 24th, 2015 22:33
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
Offline)
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