Poetry

The promised apple I did not eat.

The red skin started bleeding
in my palm. Butterfly flesh
was unable to glide.

Two round, intense eyes were chasing me.

A namesake volcano
bursts open in my chest,
then I notice the flowing lava
from hungry eggs.

The earth will not conceive again.

In the backyard a blue jay
was waiting for the golden seed.
I suck a fatal tweak
in the sundrunk green.

Thirsting for the logic will never the unmade.


Satish Verma