Wrinkling
Give me not your style today :
the visceral truth, liberated
from painkillers.
Spying singles out the flesh
after the resentment of torture
to do more wrong ;
going away in yesterday
puts the life in apocalyptic shade,
the orange condoles for dark
when I lie still on flames
of sandalwood, setting the sun
bleed in blue eyes
of lonely sea. I am again
sleepwalking on salt lake ready
to draw the boundary of reasons,
the second-hand stitch for the eternal wound.
SATISH VERMA
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2011
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment