Playing a foghorn
for self-esteem,
is an ego trip.
The white tiger
mauls a cow,
beyond the audio.
You are shrinking―
now at the hands of
unqualified arms.
No need of any
funeral finale. The bones
are as white as the moon.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: August 30th, 2018 18:59
- Category: Nature
- Views: 29
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
Offline)
Comments1
Stunningly penned; especially the last stanza!
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