Touching your
glacier lips with my poems.
A splinter thought
has hogged the center stage.

There was a double
meaning in relaxed posture
of rebellion. Doves of peace
were not visible as yet.

The poverty of freedom
to defend the talent of embracing
death without bullets of shame.

Stones in limelight, left
and right, hitting the walls
of silence. The fat people with
golden hair will decide the ******* burns.

All night, I was
changing sides. Moon was
sending the messages in gaping holes.

Let the skin of hands,
hang like salt-and-pepper!