Poetry

Sudden onset of an insertion 
going for a kill in bluish green valley. 
 
Pretend as if you are dead 
and start disintegrating. 
 
Your poverty of words disconnects 
you from cogitation and you start- 
 
walking in sleep. Cannot reach 
the breasts jutting out like pine cones - 
 
dismantling the invasion. You start 
manipulating the seeds. Fruits 
 
are nowhere in sight. The risk is 
grave crossing the borders of virginity. 
 
Pure aching and one thousand moons. 
I have not reached the gates of truth.