MY TABOO

Hollyhocks will not let me go; 
hold my hands. 
Shying away 
they were turning to ashes. 

In the night, wisteria 
emanates a hungry cry. 
Though wind had announced 
sun has not kept the promise. 

I gasp for the body silver 
like ancient lust, 
pure and paranoid – 
asking for the head of a spider. 

This non-violent resistance 
seeks more space to pasteurize 
the beautiful milk in gold containers. 
A passion flower was going to melt.

Satish Verma