Satish Verma

A futurist virginity in black rose 
was seeking posthumous award 
for immoral kisses of thorns. 

Unaware of lethal thighs 
skipping the lunar landscape 
at night.

Were you going to leap over 
the mountains curling across the glaciers 
of white pain? 

I will extend the shadow 
of infinite truth, 
when we talk about the half-death 
of unborn hunger.

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