You always said, violence
was in you. Everything was dying
around.
There was a tacit understanding-
enacted,
interceding with-
a lasso. The baked silence
always stares at you.
I have no praise,
no condemnation for anyone.
Inevitably you suck the moon,
your thumb,
your blood.
A poem falls on the ground
to breathe again.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: October 7th, 2018 21:29
- Category: Nature
- Views: 9
Offline)
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