The myopic tongues <br />of tall trees, going downhill <br />to find the roots of four-letter words of dead, <br />unspoken, but sung in dark. <br /> <br />They had come out of the skin. <br />River was flowing on emotional track, <br />with heavy eyelids. Father said, <br />he would never die. <br /> <br />Your unborn children were tasting <br />the salt of the road still untaken. The pain <br />in the neck was grizzlier, <br />when the sun was retreating in virgin hole. <br /> <br />Moreover, the wrinkles will tell the tale <br />of truant hands who would not <br />play with the silken adolescence <br />of a delirious moon.<br /><br />Satish Verma<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/response-4/
