Mysterious
Grip loosening;
the lesser evil-
will liberate you-
from the nights terror.
The moon bleeds,
in your bed.
A raw wound-
unblinks in pain.
No words will speak
for the fallen icon.
The death has extracted
its price.
Black milk exudes
from the round breasts.
Sun was rising.
Satish Verma
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2015
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