Poezja

While writing a poem
I make a blood hole
in my hand.

A walnut face
opens the wrinkles
to find a jade green nephrite
for colicky times.

A prelude to
a death sentence
for profane thoughts.

You think, you can postpone
insomnia of the longest night.
The insects were waiting in wings
to crawl on your beloved body.

Satish Verma