I would be riding
your stumps― to
byzantine castle
of ardor.
It was not
my thesis― to make
me blithsome.
You were your own enemy.
In a crushed phenomenon
I was sketching you
in coal, without scratching
the face on moon-paper.
The room
crumbles. Space shrinks.
I cannot touch you
in moments, in time.
What I bequeathed
remains unclaimed.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: June 15th, 2019 18:55
- Category: Nature
- Views: 6
Offline)
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