Poetry

Listening to a gleaming 
word whole life 
and finding its meaning at 
the fag end. 
And you are in thrall 
to a sinful pleasure. 
 
The yearnings 
of a small Pteris, 
which drinks arsenic daily 
to rescue a withering smile. 
 
A poem sings to me 
under a lantern, when a 
storm was raging to roil 
the blue birds of imploring peaks. 
 
It looks into your eyes 
to find the answer 
of complete shutdown 
of cotton feel.