Poetry

I recognized the vitriol.
There was blood on your hands.
The invisible was burning in dark.

This was the black moon
and this was the alienation.
An animal climbs on your shoulders.

It goes on and on.
Was it the night to undress
and show your wounds to dreams?

The lake has left the shores -
and flesh eats grass
in absence of cold truth.

I meet the moans of quaking
stars.petals know the music
of death in fragrance.


Satish Verma