Blessed dying
like a fading moon―
with no watermark.
A candle's flame
makes a hole in your shaking hand.
Skids off― on the
unpaved dirt road, a sleep catcher.
Climbing on moon shaped
rocks for the final jump.
Comes like a throwback
dialogue, what you did not say.
I will go in the wings now.
It is your turn to come
on the stage.
A nameless baby was born
on paper. It has
become an epic.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: May 10th, 2019 19:40
- Category: Nature
- Views: 28
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻, LIGHT WARRIOR
Offline)
Comments1
Ahhhh..yes good stuff zeemd anbedawdeenda yo ka rupsh
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