Delinquency

It was a complete disaster.
I will listen to moon tonight, while
writing your name
on bikini top,

holding the pigeons. The
birds had abandoned the
walnut tree in haste. Between
them can you see a butchered

image of little god, who
broke the cold chain of flirting
and sat on a rosette of
tears blocking the sun?

Was it true that death always
sits on our shoulders like an
owl undocking the life for piercing
contentious lips?

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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