A Family Dust

A thirsty town fails, harvesting the moon, and turns into a vast lake of tears. They were fighting for their right to remain poor and hungry. It was a fractured amnesia in the pit of flesh. Was it a pink rose ? No one had planted a kiss on the lips of a thorn. An unbuttoned triangle snaps the cold and opens the thighs of a tulip valley. Drop by drop honeydew dances into a hairy lap. The shooting stars go into trance, multiply the intimate minutes and indulge in sprouting the horns. The longest night feels betrayed and beseeches foremothers to conceive again. Satish Verma