Poetry

Let me paint a still life.Like
your eyes- unmoving.The irises
with shut pupils.

Why I should be green-
I ask my old mentor?

The terror of a smile
wipes away the tail of dust, with comets.

And the pachyderm remains
buried in the sands of time.

Touching the margins was gone.
You cannot leap over the grass of antiquity.

In fog twin hills will move away
without any acrimony.

A denial becomes a stake
a part of the golden ring- the boundary mark.