Poetry

The freckles were
appearing on the face
of Venus―

Arms broken.
A man-eater was shot
dead, while feeding.

The reddened skin
invites a vespa. Sometimes
you love the stings.

You wait for
the sunsets, before the
Venus flytrap shuts.

Drifting on the
dust road, I start
searching my lost address.

How will you hear
my voice?