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The Seeker
Folder:
Satish Verma Skin bleached in moon,
you prepare yourself tonight to hit the mystry,
of a recipient. The days are
tattooed on your body. The hands become claws.
A terrorist, becomes a canine,
biting blood-hot.
Like the opal, in a slow stream
of light, displaying the pisces around your―
eyes, swimming. There is no
money left to bring the milk of blue pain.
A physical contact via moon,
would you talk to me after the glorious sunset?
O, multiheaded cobra,
which of your hood is going to strike me
