Not a single word was
written today, watching
the masks being perfected.
A nosedive, of what
I built without mercury,
without threads.
Sitting on a black
stone, wishing moon a
mist bath of absolute.
It again aches, my
roving heart, trying to
knit the harmony in black and white.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: January 11th, 2019 19:43
- Category: Nature
- Views: 30
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
Offline)
Comments1
“It again aches, my
roving heart, trying to
knit the harmony in black and white.”
Exceptional...as always!
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