I Ask Nothing

Satish Verma

When a poem writes
you, I smell the
crimsoned moon.

Were you a possessed
angel, printing
desire on my palms?

Smeared on forehead,
the ash had left
the scars of kissed end.

You turn me on,
for a smile, before the honey
traces the question mark on lips.

There was no miracle
to retrieve the third eye
from the hidden love.