Looking into yourself,
one day you will say
I am not an alien.
The unborn nightmare
takes a secret look at the
self-portrait of a Rembrandt.
The contours were
losing the shape. Being
dented you don't―
want to become a pawn of time.
The hearsay was genuine.
You start believing
about the blameless moon.
Pink threads were appearing in your eyes.
An enigma flourishes.
Neither you will open your mouth,
nor the night will end.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 6th, 2019 19:23
- Category: Nature
- Views: 6
- User favorite of this poem: Sunshinefalling.
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