Against The Times

satishverma

Lipped-wet,
Counterfeits.
Fakes neither audible
nor visible.

The moment dies
in our hands.
It was a non-
happening.

Silence booms
destroying the palace,
of dreams. I should have
become the scissors.

This poem is not charitable
gnawing at the underlip
of an orphaned
moon.

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: August 4th, 2015 22:51
  • Category: Nature
  • Views: 7
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