Come Again

satishverma

Intercepting the random 
poems, pick not 
the holy water, in your palm. 
I cannot lift the words. 

Dark bellies, in moon's 
autumn, will play with flutes. 
You will swoon on the 
sight of blood at the hands. 

It was not the first time, a 
lamb in the midair- 
falls on the golden spear of 
new theme, to bluff the naiveness. 

Somebody takes a turn, to 
find the bell, which will not send 
any sound, on the death of 
the poppies.

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: August 23rd, 2018 20:09
  • Category: Nature
  • Views: 25
  • Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓

Receive the ebook in seconds 50 poems from 50 different authors


Comments +

Comments1

  • Laura🌻

    ...and the warring
    struggles continue...

    Excellent!



To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.