How much I know me,
I will ask you one day.
That was a symbolic
wish, if you were on moon
to celebrate your own death,
at the hands of unknown.
The deepest mystery was,
why must you live.
This was a culture of thriving with
make-ups. If you recite
a truth, you become ugly.
Hunted by lymphs and
nodes you cannot walk straight.
You turn back, when
the time of departure comes.
Hail the dead, who
licks the rock-salt in end.
Nothing else was real.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: October 29th, 2019 21:50
- Category: Nature
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻, sylviasearcher.
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