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Woodrose
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Satish Verma The whole truth was porus,
a hard punch on my face. We stood
on the edge of lies. Body
twisted at several places, mutually
hating, yet telling sweet nothings,
bored umpteen times like eroded hisses.
The shrieks belie the red wall of flames,
reddened lids. Cannot enhance the
blackness of night for stars to shine.
They butchered a symphony. A nude
cries. The tongue slips. Bonanza for bats.
And I resume the hunt in starlit jungle of birds.
Blue lips surround a pink hole.
Teeth were not visible, but bite was sharp.
How do you love a distanced friend?
The beauty of Raflesia?
