While writing a poem
I make a blood hole
in my hand.

A walnut face
opens the wrinkles
to find a jade green nephrite
for colicky times.

A prelude to
a death sentence
for profane thoughts.

You think, you can postpone
insomnia of the longest night.
The insects were waiting in wings
to crawl on your beloved body.

Submitted by Satish Verma.

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