Lips of clay tend to bleed
my kisses.
And the distant moon treads
softly on the spent passion.

A private crimson
blunts the whiteness of moon.
The birds-
step out from the fog.

Last moments -
of the bell to announce
the schizophrenic flesh
sailing like snowflakes.

A primordial fear -
was destroying the profile of man.
Here it goes-
the spiritual enigma.

A blast
of stunned silence:
I am collecting pebbles
from the trees.

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: December 18th, 2015 21:57
  • Category: Nature
  • Views:

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