Poetry

A futurist virginity in black rose
was seeking posthumous award
for immoral kisses of thorns.

Unaware of lethal thighs
skipping the lunar landscape
at night.

Were you going to leap over
the mountains curling across the glaciers
of white pain?

I will extend the shadow
of infinite truth,
when we talk about the half-death
of unborn hunger.


Satish Verma