Written by: Satish Verma

It was a summer night.
A windswept moonbeam
plummeted. Sexualizing 

an indigo flesh. A butcher
was seducing
a spider, in company of

a holy book. Sunbathing in
mass grave of skulls. The eyes 
peeking out of the caps.

You want to pluck the blue
berries from
volcano mounts. The key player

will burn your script. Body
of milk died on snow. The 
moth was coming out of cocoon.

Satish Verma