by Satish Verma
Coming near the incarnation of an
unknown, sunflower seeds were cracking.
Trickling down the cleavage of a tormentor
reaching near the edge of poetry.
I ask you to clamp my name, the
gash on the book was bleeding.
Was it discretion of night to decorate
a battered and abused body of a doll?
Naked you cry on the shoulder of the moon.
This was my prophecy, this is my fate.
Last updated September 03, 2012