Not reading your eyes
today, walking on
burning cinders.
In search of green
darkness, to sleep on the breasts
of waiting moon.
The fear of woods, hiding
the tiger beetles. They
run very fast to snatch the prey.
No agenda. Outside is
very cold. The poet will
see the fall of veins.
The road still entices.
Endless dreams and―
no halts to get the kiss of eternal rest.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: May 18th, 2019 19:21
- Category: Nature
- Views: 6
Offline)
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