To read a map―
listening to your inner voice, for
changing the green color
of eyes.
I was studing you,
in the caravan of desert,
leaving the roots
going nowhere.
I will wait for the fall
to pick up my crisp, memories
breaking off from―
the sad trees of life.
Stepping stones were
beautiful, not the feet. I might
have erred in draping the
people who were fake.
Sometimes you mourn
the vision of dying moon.
It will not bleed―
till you cry.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: May 7th, 2019 20:05
- Category: Nature
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Sunshinefalling, LIGHT WARRIOR
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Comments1
Absolitely Exquisite..your beat one yet.i appreciatee your friendship upon this site .i often winder of you ever read my worj perhaps one day you will show me...xxoo
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