Poetry

What was that inside you
which was not ready to accept
the compound folly of a man?

What worry do I carry tonight
to my bed?
An intentional leap into the very
fire of mind?

A virgin garden battles with a storm
It is ready to mince the words
for a carnal smell of poinsettia,
and I am going to lower the guard
from wrinkled eyes.

Like a thong around the neck
to obtain the tongue.
I turn towards the blood of game
global erosion of love and waxen defeat!


Satish Verma