Almost touched
the birthmark of lips
on my poems.
Will not want
for it to happen, when
the sun breaks into stars
in your amaranthus eyes.
Syllable by
syllable, you weave
the inferno to burn
the sins of voodoo.
No one was
traitor when grass
dries up under the feet of
glaring moon.
Ah! this was
a Vedic punishment. I
want to learn the
early form of revenge.