Poetry

The icon, 
is a smoky gem, 
like a random stone, hiding 
a jewel. 
 
You become an ex; 
throwing the gauntlet 
over the frozen 
shoulder. 
 
Everything glides 
around you. I am sinking 
in Bermuda Triangle. 
 
The trembling hands 
groping for― 
the coral reef under the water. 
 
The tiger will not 
sleep tonight. You cannot 
shut the eyes, when 
I am being pit-roasted.