You always speak
from the eyes.
My sun will send the clouds.
No it isn't. You
wanted to look away
hiding the moons.
Extra-virgin. No way.
Tree was crying.
Branches gone, no olives.
This city will start
a trade. Selling
glass eyes of many shades.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: May 2nd, 2019 21:50
- Category: Nature
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
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