The guile demands
some apology,
from raw stings.
Flirting with illegibility:
Mercurially hot,
there was a preempt strike.
The monsoon comes late.
You would wait for the
wet encounter.
Not seedy one;
dragging a green wound.
Ending sine die.
The white salt
on the lips will speak-
the telltale marks, of crude assault.
Who will surrender
in the end, I will
find out, covering my eyes.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: February 12th, 2017 22:44
- Category: Nature
- Views: 11
Offline)
Comments1
you write intelligent poems with deep and profound hidden meaning you are a gentleman and a salou
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