Delicate Balance
A half-clad sun was trying to hide.
A cut moon was thrown into fire.
Evening was settling down.
A mind trip started to unravel
the pink eye in kaleidoscopic
colours of padded thoughts –
where the sky dips its finger.
This was not the ending
neither ending of the beginning
of the heist of blue colors
of bird’s song, of milky skin,
from the kisses of lemon nights.
SATISH VERMA
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