The Seeker

Satish Verma

Skin bleached in moon, 
you prepare yourself tonight to hit the mystry, 

of a recipient. The days are 
tattooed on your body. The hands become claws. 

A terrorist, becomes a canine, 
biting blood-hot. 

Like the opal, in a slow stream 
of light, displaying the pisces around your― 

eyes, swimming. There is no 
money left to bring the milk of blue pain. 

A physical contact via moon, 
would you talk to me after the glorious sunset? 

O, multiheaded cobra, 
which of your hood is going to strike me