Missing The Bus

satishverma

For the memory of palms,
the pretence lives on―
the blade of a saber.

You run on the sands
barefoot― to catch the waves
returning back to sea.

You had stopped
talking to me― wearing the
mystery― I loved.

On skin you print the
anthem. Somebody kills the lamb.
The pathos went quiet.

Becoming cold turkey,
absolutely white. The pilgrimage
over, you break the coconut.

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: November 19th, 2019 19:43
  • Category: Nature
  • Views: 10
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