THE MIDDLE GROUND

I try to think,
not to think of you;
cede hope to candor.

You will not contribute,
to your own rape, of truth;
rediscovering the shame.

The modesty will not sit
on the stigmata.
Moths were becoming defiant.

Copiously drenched,
under the wet moon,
a poem will seek a title.

It returns back, the
kiss, you sent for the flame.
It was very hot, the farewell.

Satish Verma