The StingsA Poem by Satish VermaHe was not ready for a stash of negligees
He was not ready
for a stash of negligees put up by moon, on the trees. A hanging valley drops the pretense meets the river on the way for a rendezvous. Nymphs are flying randomly against crystals of stars blank night asks for nothing. Sometimes hallucinations are welcome when it is too hot inside and the life sucks madly. It was all very puzzling the nudes in mirrors, the stings in prayers. Leaning against the wall gives a scope for existence remember, the desires are many. the separateness was the idea to put the damper on shouts we are not, what we willed. © 2016 Satish Verma
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