Like toothache.
Would hear the voices
of dark.
No beginning, no end.
I will not conclude.
Like the setting sun in west
dying beautifully―
without moon.
It is a chilling confession.
No offending. Trying to
understand unmoving lips.
In my suffering
there was no faith healing.
I won't ask your hand.
Every syntax, regenerates
the truth of the dirty mind.
Living amidst the
dangers of orthopedic blunders
you cannot walk straight.
The queen has gone insane.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: September 26th, 2019 19:59
- Category: Nature
- Views: 9
- User favorite of this poem: Laura🌻.
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