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
