FLY-TRAP

You are not me. 
It was not gentle, 
it was not sweet. 
It was fire in the glass. 

One yellow rose was opening up 
in a very bright night. 
I was shivering 
under the leafless shade of hawthorn. 

One surrogate mother 
picks up the wormholes. 
One tendril oscillates 
to entwine the lover. 

Stealthily, the sad moon slides 
into the big bosom of clouds. 
My eyes now search, 
the bared, Venus fly-trap.

Satish Verma