Hauled up
the breast suture.
You were following the milk route,
epitomizing the fall. From the
golden clouds. Wanting to
swim in blue veins,
you were drowned. The fire
has spurted the blood. A carbon
copy of exit strategy
in your hands, you unreel
the chains of libido in failed
state of limbs.
The cartel has littered
the street with gentle greens,
to buy the lips. Spurned
lover commits a suicide.
Satish Verma
