Poetry

You wanted to understand 
the tenor of wet, heavy lids ― 
that had emigrated from 
deep oceanic eyes. 
 
You believed―it will go on 
for ever. Roused in peace. 
I will listen to the voice of river 
lapping at the shores of pain. 
 
Cocoon was lying still, will 
not open to us. I was ready 
to receive the death at door. 
But it was a stripteaser. 
 
The lovers will meet in the 
wilderness, ride the lioness 
and black berries will go to 
moon for the payment of wages.