Loose Threads

Satish Verma

Your thin white skin spreads 
on the front. The blue 
veins have become the strings, 
annexing my peninsula. 

You had said, it was a 
bit of stretch, to cover the 
lies of a fading sun, 
for a delayed penitence. 

Living water will bring clouds 
to fill in the lakes of grief. 
One day the lilies will grow-
meet in the air, for sombody's sake. 

The black moon was still 
raw. All the weeds had 
become snakes. I start 
hating this season of mating.