When The Smoke Rises Poem by Satish Verma
When The Smoke Rises
Writing poems
on your lips,
fearlessly compromising
the Venus.
The pink, female
moonlets, trying to
stitch a womb.
I start a countdown
to launch,
a death paramour.
My severed hand
holds a yellow rose.
Preserving the―
half skull of artificial
intelligence, living
without you.
Meet me again
on the crossroads.
I want to change
the gender with you.
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5/13/2024 6:15:05 AM # 1.0.0.1119
