The Withering Blossoms

The guile demands
some apology,
from raw stings.

Flirting with illegibility:
Mercurially hot,
there was a preempt strike.

The monsoon comes late.
You would wait for the
wet encounter.

Not seedy one;
dragging a green wound.
Ending sine die.

The white salt
on the lips will speak-
the telltale marks, of crude assault.

Who will surrender
in the end, I will
find out, covering my eyes.