Vanities

Was that a robot
claiming friendship
with the relics of past?

Or a quirk of a raw nerve
conversing with history:
and we will wait for centuries

to build a new scream
under the pale moon
in wingless night.

Whispering sex to flowers,
bees scrambled on the skin
of wooly leaves.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!