Perception

Lips of clay tend to bleed my kisses. And the distant moon treads softly on the spent passion. A private crimson blunts the whiteness of moon. The birds- step out from the fog. Last moments – of the bell to announce the schizophrenic flesh sailing like snowflakes. A primordial fear – was destroying the profile of man. Here it goes- the spiritual enigma. A blast of stunned silence: I am collecting pebbles from the trees. Satish Verma