A relative lie, <br />becomes the truth. <br />Will you meet me, on the <br />cobbled street, where the gospels <br />are cowering in terror; <br />to find the style. <br /> <br />Becoming; to be a void. As if <br />I was not there. Unpetaled, <br />the ovary will ask <br />the bees to land immediately <br />on open mouths. <br /> <br />From the veiled moon, <br />comes a stifled cry. <br />Do not collect the peaches.<br /><br />Satish Verma<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scourging/
