Beyond the sex
he was sleepwalking in shame
hiding his faith ingloriously.
A poacher in harem
of politics, where you stack the hidden
virility for killing the money.
A single mate must die
making love on screen in the vicinity
of god’s house.
The monstrous lie will
press the knife to the lips
for shedding the blood of a monk in a brothel.
If we must forget
the accidental shot,
the spring will never come to olive grove.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline)
- Published: June 15th, 2015 23:11
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.