Poezja

Fraternising
the needles
on abbreviated lips.
Handful of sand
hauling uphill.

Code of particles
feels the entire lie.
You wear mauve
when I cry.

Like diatoms
in eyes.
Erase the sun
from my hairs.
I am turning black.

The brine
had encroached all around.
The brown grass, the soaked laughter,
but I will come again in disbelief.

Satish Verma