EACH THORN WAS CRYING

Sometimes I will interplay 
the secrets: 
faded rose in a book, 
a distant star spelling out 
your name. 

When I go, will you come 
to my home? 
Hold my eyes wide open 
and become my iris? 
I wanted to see the innocence of a sin. 

Black stone on a white belly 
petrifies the womb. 
Maniacs were dancing on the petals 
of marigolds. 
A mauve revenge 

Petit mal holds the sanity 
of defeat. 
Pheromones will decide the gender 
of a flat chested angel. 
Each thorn was crying.

Satish Verma