Oblivion

A cutaneous drip.
The young moon drinks the dew
unbuttoning a rose.

A fierce wind rubs
against the golden triangle
to invite a violet sting.

Eyes armed with green thumbs
go for a swim in rage.
The lake unloosens a blood moon.

No inscense will rise
from the tomb of a lover,
unless he dies with a style.

Crossing the gray lines,
I will not take your lips;
paralyzing the silver tongs.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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