Burns of Hatred

You put up a price on all the gifted items. I was not ready to pay back in dreams. Wanted to tell you without telling. Lips to lips we talk of a stillborn space which does not crack. Betraying the anger, words feel sick. I was trying to decipher the moist corners of eyes. I will wait till sunset, when I will call for the night and take off my shadows and drop petals one by one and come out in hot sun to receive the burns of hatred. It was not easy. Tulips were in full bloom and my tracks were warm. There were false shades all around the garden. SATISH VERMA