Poetry

In transit of soul, 
when you were under siege, 
you got a new number for afterlife 
wearing a white robe- 
 
and could see right through 
your past picking up the 
lips from the despair 
of ancient dream. 
 
Will you catch the honeydew 
dripping from the eternal tree 
of life? Have you seen night- 
blooming flames gouging- 
 
the intrigues from the black 
walls? There has been a deepening 
sense of despair. The venus is 
ready to unrobe in full glare of sun.