Without shadow
an agony, slits me open.
As when I bleed.
I write a poem.
It hurts,
when you touch the words,
the lines, the paragraph-
the page.
From teaching
to be a learner-
a long odyssey from-
innocence to scream.
My namesake, my akin
dies daily. I dig a mass grave
to find my twins,
where the god lived.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: October 6th, 2018 20:04
- Category: Nature
- Views: 5
Offline)
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