Walking in mental
fog, you become
a swaying tree.
In mistiness
one becomes lonely
like a blackbird.
Hollyhocks
would wait, till
the sun comes out.
December rain
brings the gift―
of sleet on lips.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: May 5th, 2019 20:14
- Category: Nature
- Views: 7
- User favorite of this poem: Laura🌻.
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