Loose Threads

Your thin white skin spreads
on the front. The blue
veins have become the strings,
annexing my peninsula.

You had said, it was a
bit of stretch, to cover the
lies of a fading sun,
for a delayed penitence.

Living water will bring clouds
to fill in the lakes of grief.
One day the lilies will grow―
meet in the air, for sombody's sake.

The black moon was still
raw. All the weeds had
become snakes. I start
hating this season of mating.

Satish Verma