ink wets the paper
no single word is written:
    drinking in mirage
***
       glacial frosty wind
The Muse catches a bad cold—
            poetic virus
***
     still dreaming of dawn,
searching for the silky thread:
         sin of confession
***
     torrents of rain fall:
bullets striking the body—
      carving epitaphs
***
          a cruel coldness
is plucking all handkerchiefs
       from all the drawers
***
    gusts of wintry wind:
the silky bush is dangling—
       a hair in the soup
***
Feeble breeze wafted—
a free air-conditioner
to the poor’s delight.
 
***
            a virgin apple;
its red glowing lights rinse sins—
        I may purge on Mars
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