Scourging Poem by Satish Verma
Scourging
A relative lie,
becomes the truth.
Will you meet me, on the
cobbled street, where the gospels
are cowering in terror;
to find the style.
Becoming; to be a void. As if
I was not there. Unpetaled,
the ovary will ask
the bees to land immediately
on open mouths.
From the veiled moon,
comes a stifled cry.
Do not collect the peaches.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
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4/18/2024 11:58:59 PM # 1.0.0.1119
