Skin bleached in moon,
you prepare yourself tonight to hit the mystry,
of a recipient. The days are
tattooed on your body. The hands become claws.
A terrorist, becomes a canine,
biting blood-hot.
Like the opal, in a slow stream
of light, displaying the pisces around your―
eyes, swimming. There is no
money left to bring the milk of blue pain.
A physical contact via moon,
would you talk to me after the glorious sunset?
O, multiheaded cobra,
which of your hood is going to strike me
you prepare yourself tonight to hit the mystry,
of a recipient. The days are
tattooed on your body. The hands become claws.
A terrorist, becomes a canine,
biting blood-hot.
Like the opal, in a slow stream
of light, displaying the pisces around your―
eyes, swimming. There is no
money left to bring the milk of blue pain.
A physical contact via moon,
would you talk to me after the glorious sunset?
O, multiheaded cobra,
which of your hood is going to strike me
Satish Verma
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