Next Night
I hate the self-immolation
of orange sex.
Weather was leaving
blue strings on the skin.
Redemption was incomplete
by sharing the legs
Lips will not knead
the ears.
Like wakng in darkness
for a passage to grief.
Black moon will step aside
for a flame at the end of tunnel.
poem by Satish Verma
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.