Blood Diary

Satish Verma

Writing on sleeves 
to remember your departure 
and becoming a stray cloud. 

The maternal touch 
of the sky, you can sleep whole life 
on dense logics. 

White sheets were burning 
unannounced in the home. 
I lost the key, to open the door. 

All I wanted to tell you 
about, selling the roses. 
Thorns must not go free. 

The snake was shedding the skin, 
time to hone on whetstone. 
The tender loaf was ready.

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