Poetry

Feeding the mouth
of fire with tribal love.
My contextual wait―
for the pledge begins.

You come as an
accused, wearing the
veil of moon to explain―
the vanishing act.

The purple nails
scratch the scented skin
to bring out the red,
flowing love.

If you become
beautiful in praise of
moment, I will bring
the burning moth.

The vicious bell rings again.