Poetry

A streak of sin was
always there, when I looked
at you in brief encounters.

Cathartic.
I would not kiss the
eyes of a viper.

The giver was insane.
A bane of togetherness.You
were getting pheromones all the time.

Parenting was difficult.
Now as the holy month starts.
You were always near the moon.

In golden sunset,
I will prepare my elegy.
The flames were always green.

With the relapse of grief,
drums sounded loud.