Was it too late
to find out, who was
morally wrong?
It was an art of dying
for you.
Shapeless, a big pain
flourishes in my limbs,
but I remain too static
to locate my roots.
The bell will not ring today.
Somebody kills a story.
There was no hero.
Resting, my head on stones
I will bleed rest of life.
No cuts. No bruises appear.
Naked as an arrow,
a sharp gilded attack
opens the cage.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: April 28th, 2019 19:30
- Category: Nature
- Views: 23
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
Offline)
Comments1
What appears to be, ‘tis truly not!
Excellent poetry!
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