It slithers, the tongue
trying to find
the rage on cold words.
A window
shuts on fire for a deliberate
withdrawl from conflicts.
The virgin iron
becomes a corpse
under the golden
amnesia of hot greens.
The colors are changing
on face
and the silky grass of paradise.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: June 5th, 2015 22:22
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.