The Withering Blossoms

by Satish Verma

The guile demands
some apology,
from raw stings.

Flirting with illegibility:
Mercurially hot,
there was a preemptive strike.

The monsoon comes late.
You would wait for the
wet encounter.

Not seedy one;
dragging a green wound.
Ending sine die.

The white salt
on the lips will speak -
the telltale marks of crude assault.

Who will surrender
in the end, I will
find out, covering my eyes.

08-Oct-2013

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