Satish Verma
NEXT NIGHT
I hate the self-immolation
of orange sex.
Weather was leaving
blue strings on the skin.
Redemption was incomplete
by sharing the legs
Lips will not knead
the ears.
Like wakng in darkness
for a passage to grief.
Black moon will step aside
for a flame at the end of tunnel.
Satish Verma
https://truml.com