Poetry

The guile demands 
some apology, 
from raw stings. 
 
Flirting with illegibility: 
Mercurially hot, 
there was a preempt strike. 
 
The monsoon comes late. 
You would wait for the 
wet encounter. 
 
Not seedy one; 
dragging a green wound. 
Ending sine die. 
 
The white salt 
on the lips will speak- 
the telltale marks, of crude assault. 
 
Who will surrender 
in the end, I will 
find out, covering my eyes.