Living,
in the wounds,
like a gas dragged into
the black hole.
Bedeviling the light.
There are no winners in this war.
Corona will not sit
on any head.
There was ambivalence
in the robust thrust.
The hard x-rays will
burn the thoughts.
Do not go on chasing the
grazed genre. The style
will bring back the questions
which had no answers.
- Author: satishverma ( Offline)
- Published: August 1st, 2018 19:43
- Category: Nature
- Views: 6
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.