While writing a poem
I make a blood hole
in my hand.
A walnut face
opens the wrinkles
to find a jade green nephrite
for colicky times.
A prelude to
a death sentence
for profane thoughts.
You think, you can postpone
insomnia of the longest night.
The insects were waiting in wings
to crawl on your beloved body.
Satish Verma
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: January 25th, 2011 20:08
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.