On a sizzling riverbed, how many suicides <br />will make up the loss of a green moon? Must <br />we count our rags in sleep? Victims of a <br />manipulated music of bricks! <br /> <br />I thought, I will give you more, taking <br />less of you, have finally laid to rest the attacking <br />needles in the black holes of flesh. In rains we <br />will cry endlessly. <br /> <br />Another promise broken, would watch the stars <br />to set forth the eggs. A melon sweetens the <br />tongue of dissenters and robes are taken <br />off after the helicopter crash. <br /> <br />On the palms opium grows, bubbles learn <br />to float with the words of priests who were <br />reciting hymns to anoint the new incumbent, <br />will start the black magic again for mass slimming.<br /><br />Satish Verma<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clouds-and-roads/
