a night feast

seeded cherries are your lips,
blood is our wine —

we drink from the mouth
of a night’s vestigial appendage,
when the sky speaks of ecstatic
pains & pining sighs of a merlot-
moon.

cinnamon rings are my eyes,
russet are our limbs —

we feed on the saplings
of our fingers, the perspiring
sacrilege of our arduous
dreams & deep lines of a copper-
eclipse.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 7
(Inter)National Poetry Month

 

 

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