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
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2013
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