Nothing to think for,
at this moment. Faceless fears―
like pine needles,
prick the toes in walk.
You cannot―
collect the white roses
in blue rains.
You remember precisely, a toothless―
poised tiger. The prey
tied to a pole gives a
long whimper, before being mauled.
The game continues. You
cannot do anything. Violence was
real, the pen becomes the
weapon.
You start drawing vultures.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: July 9th, 2019 19:32
- Category: Nature
- Views: 42
- Users favorite of this poem: Unobtrusive Sun
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Comments1
I love this writing. Thank you for a great post!
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